Vfc.<SlTY  O^ 
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kN  OICSO 


WHAT  NEVER  HAPPENED 
A    Novel   of   the    Revolution 


THE  BORZOI 

RUSSIAN  TRANSLATIONS 

I 
II 

TARAS  BULB  A. 

By  Nicolai  V.  Gogol 

THE  SIGNAL 

By  W.  M.  Garshin 

III 

CHELKASH 

By  Maxim   Gorky 

IV 

THE   LITTLE  ANGEL 

By  Leonid  Andreyev 

V 

THE  PRECIPICE 

By  Ivan  Goncharov 

VI 

A  HERO  OF  OUR  TIME 

By  M.  Y.  Lermontov 

VII 

THE  OLD  HOUSE 

By  Feodor  Sologub 

VIII 

THE  LITTLE  DEMON 

By  Feodor  Sologub 

IX 

THE  MEMOIRS  OF  A  PHYSICIAN 
By  Vikenty  Veressayev 

X 

THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

By  Leonid  Andreyev 

XI 

THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  A  LITTLE 
MAN  DURING  GREAT  DAYS 

By  Leonid  Andreyev 

XII 

THE  JOURNAL  OF  LEO  TOLSTOI 
Edited  by  V.  Tchertkov 

XIII 

WHAT  NEVER  HAPPENED 

By  "Ropshin" 
[Boris  Savinkov'] 

Other  Volumes  in  Preparation 

WHAT  NEVER  HAPPENED 

A    Novel   of  the    Revolution 


By"ROPSHIN'' 

[Boris   Savinkov] 

Translated  from  the  Russian 
By  THOMAS  SELTZER 


ALFRED- A-  KNOPF 
NEW  YORK  •  MCMXVII 


COPYRIGHT,  1917,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF 

Fublithtd  Novimbtr,  1911 


PEINTED    IN    THE    UNITED    STATES    OT    AMERICA 


NOTE 

When  I  first  opened  my  office  in  the  summer  of  1915, 
and  before  I  had  actually  issued  a  single  book,  I  deter- 
mined to  publish  an  English  translation  of  "Ropshin's" 
great  novel  of  the  Revolution,  What  Never  Happened. 
But  the  time  did  not  seem  entirely  opportune  and  so 
temporarily  I  put  aside  the  project  and  for  two  years 
brought  out  in  the  Borzoi  Russian  Translation  series 
works  by  Andreyev,  Gorky,  Sologub,  Tolstoi  and  others 
which  have  been  received  with  uncommon  favour  by  the 
American  reading  public. 

What  Never  Happened  has,  however,  never  been  out 
of  my  mind  for  long — every  now  and  again  some  en- 
thusiast or  other  would  call  on  me  and  suggest  that  I 
let  him  translate  it  for  me.  But  arrangements  were 
virtually  made  in  June,  1915,  with  Mr.  Thomas  Seltzer, 
who  first  called  the  book  to  my  attention  before  either  of 
us  had  any  knowledge  as  to  the  real  identity  of  the 
author. 

We  all  knew  that  "Ropshin"  was  a  pen  name,  and 
that  his  book,  which  created  a  great  stir  in  Russia  and 
even  among  the  Russians  in  America,  was  so  true  to  the 
facts  of  the  terrorist  existence  that  many  of  his  fellow 
workers  had  condemned  him  for  his  frankness.  Also 
that  he  had  paid  a  fleeting  visit  to  New  York.  More 
definite  information  about  "Ropshin"  no  one  seemed  to 
have. 

Then  in  March  of  this  year  came  the  Revolution  and 


Note 

among  those  whose  return  to  the  fatherland  it  hastened 
was  Boris  Savinkov,  a  Russian  who  had  been  fighting 
with  the  French  army  in  the  West.  This  Savinkov  was 
a  terrorist  of  long  standing  who,  implicated  in  the  assas- 
sination of  the  Grand  Duke  Sergius  and  Von  Plehve,  had 
been  condemned  to  death  at  Sevastopol  in  1906  but  had 
escaped  to  Switzerland  and  thence  to  France.  He  now 
luirried  to  Petrograd  and  was  promptly  sent  to  the  front 
as  head  of  the  Commissary  Department  in  General 
Kornilov's  army.  In  August  the  great  retreat  com- 
menced and  he  was  called  to  the  capital  by  Kerensky  and 
appointed  Minister  of  War. 

Boris  Savinkov  is  "Ropshin"  and  What  Never  Hap- 
pened is  thus  the  work  of  one  of  the  most  prominent 
men  in  Russia  today.  One  need  scarcely  point  out  how 
thin  the  partition  is  which  separates  this  literary  produc- 
tion from  the  actual  life  lived  by  its  distinguished 
author. 

Alfred  A.  Knopf 
Sans  Souci, 
28  October,  1917 


WHAT  NEVER  HAPPENED 

PART  I 
CHAPTER  I 

FROM  the  moment  he  crossed  the  frontier  Andrey 
Bolotov  became  a  prey  to  the  vague  apprehen- 
sion felt  by  a  zealous  property  owner  who  leaves 
some  one  else  in  charge  of  his  estates.  The  vast  revo- 
lutionary Party  extending  throughout  Russia  was  to 
him  a  huge  estate,  the  administration  of  which  involved 
untold  labour.  It  demanded  some  one  with  untiring 
vigilance  to  watch  over  its  dynamite  workshops,  secret 
printing  presses,  fighting  squads,  district  and  gov- 
ernment committees,  peasant  brotherhoods,  workmen's 
circles,  student  groups,  officers'  and  soldiers'  organiza- 
tions, and  its  plots,  arrests,  strikes,  demonstrations,  suc- 
cesses and  failures.  He  did  not  understand  that  his 
comrades,  old  man  Arseny  Ivanovich,  Doctor  Berg,  Vera 
Andreyevna,  Arkady  Rosenstem,  and  the  others — that 
they  had  the  same  attitude  as  he,  each  one  regarding  the 
Party  as  a  flourishing  estate  belonging  not  to  Bolotov, 
but  to  himself.  But  even  had  Bolotov  understood  this, 
he  could  not  have  uprooted  that  feeling,  which  alone 
gave  him  courage  to  live  and  work  as  an  outlaw,  with- 
out family  ties,  without  home  or  name,  unterrified  by 
the  prospect  of  imprisonment  or  death.     Only  the  lurk- 

7 


8  What  Never  Happened 

ing  conviction  that  he,  Andrey  Bolotov,  was  the  most 
loyal,  the  most  obedient,  the  most  self-sacrificing  mem- 
ber of  the  Party,  which  to  him  was  the  mother  of  the 
revolution — only  the  conviction  that  without  him  the 
Party  would  fall  to  pieces,  upheld  him  in  his  purpose. 

When  Bolotov  finished  the  business  that  had  taken 
him  abroad,  and  was  about  to  return  to  Russia,  his  un- 
rest mounted  to  a  climax.  He  was  quite  sure  that  his 
comrades  had  not  paused  in  their  work  of  distributing 
prohibited  literature,  printing  proclamations,  arranging 
strikes  and  manufacturing  bombs.  He  knew  that  those 
men  and  women  who,  impelled  by  the  most  varied  mo- 
tives, had  united  to  create  that  live  intricate  mechanism, 
the  Party,  never  paused  in  their  humble  but,  to  them, 
necessary  labour,  like  the  toiling  of  ants  at  their  ant-hill. 
And  yet  he  was  beset  by  a  dread,  which  bordered  on  a 
torturing  certainty,  that  this  time  on  returning  home  he 
should  find  only  the  pitiful  ruins  of  what  he  had  left; 
he  should  find  the  ant-hill  demolished  by  a  ruthless  foe. 

That  oppressive  period  when  he  had  been  a  prey  to 
fear  for  his  own  safety  had  passed  long  before.  Just  as 
a  mariner  becomes  accustomed  to  the  sea  and  no  longer 
gives  any  thought  to  the  possibility  of  drowning;  just 
as  a  soldier  becomes  accustomed  to  war  and  no  longer 
thinks  of  being  killed ;  just  as  a  physician  comes  to  lose 
all  fear  of  contagion ;  so  had  Bolotov  become  accustomed 
to  his  "underground"  existence  and  had  ceased  to  be 
haunted  by  the  thought  that  some  day  he  might  hang. 
But  somewhere  in  the  depths  of  his  soul,  lulled  though 
it  had  been  to  unconsciousness,  there  stirred  a  dark  and 
restless  feeling — that  same  feeling  which  never  leaves 
the  mariner,  the  physician,  or  the  soldier.  And  under 
the  control   of  this   feeling  Bolotov  had  unwittingly 


What  Never  Happened  9 

grown  into  the  '  *  conspirator 's ' '  habit  of  secrecy.  It  was 
not  that  he  hid  from  his  relatives  and  friends,  but  he 
could  no  longer  understand  why  one  would  visit  friends 
and  relatives  just  for  the  pleasure  of  it.  It  was  not  that 
he  was  silent  about  Party  matters,  but  he  could  not 
understand  why  one  should  talk  about  them  to  outsiders. 
Nor  did  he  avoid  strangers,  but  he  merely  could  no 
longer  understand  how  one  can  trust  chance  acquaint- 
ances. He  did  not  see  that  all  his  relations  with  people, 
from  his  mother  and  father  down  to  concierges  and  but- 
lers, were  guided  by  fear  and  by  a  keen  desire  to  conceal 
those  details  of  his  life  which  were  of  paramount  in- 
terest to  him.  And  even  had  he  seen  this,  he  could  not 
have  acted  in  any  other  way.  He  would  have  told  him- 
self that  lies  and  concealment  were  justified  by  the  fact 
that  the  Party  could  be  protected  only  by  the  strictest 
secrecy  and  that  hence  they  were  essential  to  the  revo- 
lution. 

The  assassination  of  Plehve,  Bloody  Sunday,  the  dj''- 
namiting  of  February  Fourth,  as  well  as  Liao-yang,  Port 
Arthur  and  Mukden  were  still  fresh  in  everybody's 
mind.  Old  and  young,  government  officials  and  work- 
men, army  men  and  students,  adherents  of  the  regime 
and  Socialists — all  alike  felt  that  something  new  was  in 
the  air ;  something  that  never  was,  unfamiliar  and  there- 
fore alarming.  The  old  habitual  order,  sanctified  by 
centuries,  was  rocking.  But  though  everybody  felt  it, 
they  all  continued  to  lead  their  usual  life  with  its  tri- 
fling everyday  interests.  And  so  did  Bolotov.  He  kept 
on  reading  revolutionary  pamphlets  and  writing  in  the 
Party  organs  that  ''the  people  have  awakened,"  that 
"the  red  flag  is  now  proudly  waving,"  and  that  "the 
time  is  near  when  the  shackles  of  autocracy  will  be  burst 


10  What  Never  Happened 

asunder."  Not  that  he  had  grasped  the  significance 
of  contemporary  events,  but  through  incessant  repeti- 
tion it  had  become  second  nature  with  him  to  speak 
and  write  in  phrases  of  the  kind.  Being  a  man  of  keen 
perceptions,  he  had  long  known  that  the  Party  was 
steadily  growing,  and  because  of  this  he  believed  with  a 
firm  faith  that  the  revolution  must  come  and  that  it 
would  come  triumphant.  He  was  confident  that  it  was 
impossible  for  the  Government  to  gain  the  upper  hand 
because  he  believed  the  Russian  peasants,  hundreds  of 
millions  of  them,  would  join  in  the  uprising.  So,  in 
this  belief,  he  occupied  himself  daily  with  the  business 
of  his  Party,  and  was  really  useful,  as  long  as  thus 
occupied,  to  the  revolution  in  which  he  had  such  firm 
faith. 

Before  leaving  Berlin  for  Russia  he  shaved  off  his 
beard,  selected  an  inconspicuous  dark  coat  of  English 
cut,  and  changed  his  tell-tale  broad-brimmed  hat  for  a 
derby.  He  made  his  preparations  with  the  care  and  de- 
liberation that  were  characteristic  of  him.  He  knew 
that  to  avoid  irritating  espionage  he  must  identify  him- 
self with  the  crowd.  In  the  train  he  did  not  buy  his 
beloved  Socialist  daily,  the  Vorwdrts,  but  some  unfa- 
miliar capitalist  sheet,  which  he  read  hiding  himself 
behind  it,  from  force  of  habit.  On  the  first  page  he 
noticed  printed  in  large  type:  ''The  loss  of  the  Rus- 
sian squadron." 

Bolotov  had  felt  nothing  but  joy  at  Stoessel's  surren- 
der of  Port  Arthur  and  again  when  the  news  had  come 
of  the  battle  of  IMukden.  He  looked  upon  every  war 
as  a  crime,  as  senseless  slaughter,  something  pernicious 
and  atrocious.  However,  had  anybody  asked  him  what 
he  thought  of  the  Japanese  war,  he  would  have  an- 


What  Never  Happened  It 

swered  unhesitatingly  that  the  Japanese  "adventure," 
though  cruel,  was  nevertheless  useful.  He  could  not 
have  answered  otherwise.  He  thought  that  the  defeat 
of  Russia  would  be  the  defeat  of  autocracy,  and  the 
victory  of  Japan  would  be  the  victory  of  the  Party  and, 
hence,  his  own  victory.  He  could  see  no  contradiction 
between  these  views,  and  neither  could  the  audiences 
that  he  addressed  at  meetings. 

But  now,  as  he  read  the  news  dispatch,  he  felt  no 
trace  of  that  familiar,  yet  guilty,  feeling  of  joy  as  at 
his  own  victory.  His  brother,  Aleksandr  Bolotov,  was 
a  naval  lieutenant  attached  to  Admiral  Eozhestvensky 's 
squadron. 

"As  soon  as  the  smoke  had  cleared  away,"  wrote  the 
German  correspondent,  "the  battle  was  renewed  with 
redoubled  vigour.  All  the  Japanese  ships  had  concen- 
trated their  fire  on  the  battleship  Osliabya,  and  the  lat- 
ter was  soon  enveloped  in  flames  and  forced  to  retire. 
The  battleships  Suvorov  and  Aleksandr  were  also  set 
afire.  Then  the  Borodino  and  others  began  to  bum. 
The  Japanese  fleet  was  at  its  full  strength,  and  the  bat- 
tle lasted  until  2:20  p.m.  At  2:50  p.m.  the  Osliabya 
went  to  the  bottom. ' ' 

Bolotov  closed  his  eyes.  He  tried  to  picture  a  sink- 
ing battleship.  Once,  on  the  French  coast,  he  had  seen 
a  sunken  schooner  with  two  forlorn  masts  standing  out 
of  the  water.  And  now,  trying  to  imagine  the  Osliabya, 
the  picture  of  the  unknown  schooner  rose  before  his 
eyes.  He  was  sure  that  several  hundred  young  and 
vigorous  men  had  gone  down  with  the  battleship.  As 
a  Socialist  and  revolutionist,  he  should  have  been  re- 
volted by  the  thought  of  this  criminal  slaughter.  He 
was  not.    He  could  not  visualize  the  defeat  of  the  fleet, 


12  What  Never  Happened 

or  the  burning  battleships,  or  the  sinking  Osliahya,  or 
even  the  simple  and  terrible  death  of  a  sailor.  To  him 
the  newspaper  report  was  nothing  more  than  a  mean- 
ingless collection  of  words.     He  read  on: 

"When  the  Suvorov  and  the  Aleksandr  retired  from 
action,  the  battleship  Borodino  became  the  flagship. 
The  Suvorov,  though  enveloped  in  flames,  kept  on  fight- 
ing until  it  lost  its  foremast  and  both  smokestacks.  Ad- 
miral Rozhestvensky  was  wounded  at  the  very  outset 
of  the  engagement  and  removed  from  the  battleship 
Suvorov  to  the  destroyer  Buyny.  Admiral  Nebogatov 
took  over  the  command.  At  seven  o'clock  in  the  eve- 
ning a  large  fire  burst  out  on  the  Borodino,  and  it  soon 
went  to  the  bottom,  all  in  flames  and  smoke. ' ' 

Bolotov  recalled  his  brother,  a  young  officer,  broad- 
shouldered,  of  medium  height,  in  naval  uniform.  He 
seldom  thought  of  his  brother.  He  knew  he  was  at  the 
front,  in  the  Far  East,  and  that  he  had  no  sympathy 
with  the  revolution.  That  was  enough  for  Bolotov. 
He  had  no  time  to  think  of  matters  that  had  no  direct 
bearing  upon  his  beloved  Party.    But  now  he  felt  sad. 

''Perhaps  he  has  been  killed.  "Who?  My  brother? 
Sasha?  Perhaps  Sasha  has  been  killed  there,  in  the 
battle  of  Tsu  Shima?" 

And  as  it  sometimes  happens  in  dreams,  he  suddenly 
saw  a  vivid  picture  of  the  battle  in  all  its  details.  He 
saw  a  huge  black  wounded  battleship,  the  stacks  rent 
by  shots,  the  guns  shattered,  the  masts  in  ruins.  But 
the  banner  of  Andrey  was  still  floating  in  the  air.  And 
he  could  see  Sasha  pale,  in  a  torn  uniform,  all  cov- 
ered with  blood,  where  he  lay  on  his  back,  on  the  wet 
bulging  iron  deck  near  the  pilot-house.  He  even  imag- 
ined he  could  see  how;  the  ship  rocked  to  and  fro  and 


What  Never  Happened  13 

the  waves  kept  beating  against  the  partly  submerged 
steering-wheel.  He  could  almost  hear  the  lashing  of 
the  waves. 

Without  any  longer  grasping  the  meaning  of  the 
words,  Bolotov  read  on:  "Admiral  Nebogatov  raised 
the  signal  of  surrender,  and  the  four  Russian  battle- 
ships Nicholas  I,  Orel,  Apraksin,  and  Seniavin  were 
thus,  on  May  16  at  10 :30  a.m.,  surrendered  to  the  Jap- 
anese forces." 

"Sasha  killed.  Is  Sasha  really  killed?"  And  once 
more  he  recalled  his  brother's  face  as  he  had  looked 
when  he  saw  him  the  last  time  in  St.  Petersburg  on  the 
Nevsky.  It  was  a  bright,  cold  autumn  day.  He  re- 
membered the  quiet,  light-blue  eyes  and  ironical  smile. 
"Good-bye,  Andriusha,  we  are  not  bound  in  the  same 
direction."  He  also  remembered  his  own  cruel  reply. 
And  now  he  wished  he  could  bring  back  that  sunny 
day,  so  that  he  might  undo  the  evil  of  his  biting  words, 
embrace,  and  forget  the  antagonism  which  now  seemed 
so  futile. 

The  train  came  to  a  rumbling  halt.  Lanterns  glim- 
mered through  the  darkness.  The  grey  uniforms  of 
gendarmes  appeared.  Voices  speaking  in  Russian  came 
to  Bolotov 's  ears.  They  seemed  strange  to  him.  It  was 
the  frontier.    Aleksandrovo. 

Bolotov  threw  away  his  newspaper.  Trying  not  to 
think  of  Tsu  Shima,  or  Nebogatov,  or  his  brother,  or  the 
Osliabya,  he  made  his  way  to  the  room  where  the  lug- 
gage was  being  examined.  Tall,  lean,  clean-shaven, 
with  a  cigar  between  his  teeth,  he  looked  like  an  Eng- 
lishman; and,  in  fact,  he  had  an  English  passport  in 
his  pocket  made  out  in  the  name  of  Henry  Macmuir. 
There  was  ei  tedious  wait  in  the  hot  crowded  hall,  full  of 


14  What  Never  Happened 

gendarmes,  and  his  firm,  good-natured  face,  with  blue 
eyes  so  like  his  brother's,  expressed  nothing  but  fastidi- 
ous boredom. 

When  he  arrived  at  Warsaw  next  morning,  he  tele- 
graphed to  Berlin:  Alles  bezahlt,  which  meant:  ** Ar- 
rived safely." 


CHAPTER  II 

BOLOTOV  reached  St.  Petersburg  on  the  morning 
of  the  next  day,  and  that  evening  he  rang  the 
bell  of  the  fifth  floor  of  a  big  house  in  the  Li- 
govka  section.  While  taking  off  his  coat  in  the  hall, 
he  could  hear  a  voice,  dry,  sharp,  crackling,  the  voice  of 
Arseny  Ivanovich,  and  another  voice  answering  ex- 
citedly. 

"Oh,  no,  what  is  there  so  terrible  about  it?"  Arseny 
Ivanovich  was  saying  impressively.  "I  don't  see  any- 
thing terrible  about  it,  my  benefactor.  The  water  is 
not  working  their  mill,  but  ours.  Two  days  ago  it  was 
Port  Arthur,  yesterday  Mukden,  today  Tsu  Shima.  Who 
is  ahead  of  the  game?  The  Japanese?  No,  sir,  not 
only  the  Japanese.  I  'm  an  old  man  and  let  me  tell  you 
this:  towards  autumn  the  army  will  be  ours.  Do  you 
think  we  have  none  of  our  people  in  the  army?  We 
have,  my  benefactor.  Our  boys  will  find  a  way  to  get 
by  anything.  Sometimes  they  jump  over,  sometimes 
they  shove  through,  sometimes  they  slide  under  and — 
crawl  on  their  bellies,  too."  He  finished  with  a  hearty 
laugh. 

Bolotov  had  known  Arseny  Ivanovich  for  many 
years.  He  was  one  of  the  founders  of  the  Party,  well 
on  in  years,  but  still  vigorous  in  spite  of  his  white  hair. 
He  was  proud  that  his  father  had  been  a  peasant  and 
that  he  himself  had  been  close  to  the  soil  in  his  youth. 
But  now  the  only  remaining  signs  of  his  peasant  past 

15 


16  What  Never  Happened 

were  certain  quaint  turns  of  speech,  the  continual  use 
of  "benefactor"  in  his  conversation,  and  a  heavy 
spade-shaped  beard;  also  his  air  of  authority  arising 
from  the  fact  that  he  knew  the  peasant  at  first  hand, 
not  from  books.  "My  word  is  pewter,"  he  often  said, 
and  his  word  was  respected  and  trusted. 

"What  do  you  mean?  I  am  not  talking  about  that," 
answered  the  young  unfamiliar  voice,  hotly.  "I  agree 
with  you  on  that  point.  But  what  I  am  asking  is  this: 
how  can  one  serve  in  the  army?  How  can  a  Socialist 
serve  in  the  army?  It's  an  anomaly.  It  is  in  direct 
opposition  to  our  principles." 

Standing  there,  in  the  dim  hall  among  an  untidy 
array  of  hats  and  coats,  Bolotov  again  called  up  the  pic- 
ture of  the  inglorious  battle  to  the  minutest  detail. 
He  saw  the  huge  black  battleship  with  its  four  smoke- 
stacks ;  near  the  pilot-house,  Sasha  on  his  back  in  a  pool 
of  blood,  and  the  waves  lashing  against  the  half 
submerged  steering-wheel. 

He  could  hear  Arseny  Ivanovich  repeating  elementary 
Party  beliefs,  the  very  things  Bolotov  might  have  said 
in  his  place.  But  now  it  seemed  to  him  that  somehow 
these  stock  phrases  did  not  ring  true,  that  they  were 
futile. 

"Sasha!     Where  is  Sasha?" 

Bolotov  recalled  the  forgotten  verses  of  Pushkin: 

"Then  twice  the  angel  blows  his  horn : 
The  earth  reverberates  with  tliunder, 
And  brother  from  his  brother  is  torn, 
And  son  and  mother  hurled  asunder." 

"  'And  brother  from  his  brother  is  torn.'  So  Sasha 
was  torn  away.  And  Arseny  Ivanovich  is  laughing. 
But   what    ails   me?     Isn't   Arseny    Ivanovich    right? 


What  Never  Happened  17 

Isn't  it  true  that  the  army  will  soon  be  on  our  side? 
Isn't  it  true  that  Tsu  Shima  will  open  the  ej'es  of  the 
soldiers?    "What's  the  matter  with  me?" 

He  came  to  himself  and  pushed  open  the  squeaking 
door. 

Arseny  Ivanovieh,  Doctor  Berg,  and  comrade  David, 
a  young  man  unknown  to  Bolotov,  were  enveloped  in 
a  thick  cloud  of  tobacco  smoke.  Vera  Andreyevna,  a 
tall,  middle-aged  woman  with  a  worn  yellow  face,  was 
pacing  the  room  rapidly,  as  though  in  a  prison  cell. 

Twice  a  week  these  people  gathered  to  discuss  their 
daily  Party  work.  It  was  this  daily  work  that  they 
regarded  as  their  great  task  of  managing  the  organiza- 
tion. Just  as  a  mason  does  his  humble  but  useful  share 
in  building  a  house  by  digging  the  foundation,  unload- 
ing the  brick,  and  passing  the  buckets  of  cement,  so 
did  they  patiently  and  humbly,  stone  by  stone,  build 
up  the  Party.  But  the  mason  does  not  have  it  in  his 
power  to  destroy  the  house,  or  to  prevent  its  comple- 
tion, this  power  being  vested  in  his  master.  And  so, 
neither  were  they  the  masters  of  the  revolution,  and 
their  attempts  to  direct  it  were  alwaj's  and  invariably 
futile. 

After  Bolotov  had  finished  the  report  of  his  trip 
abroad,  Doctor  Berg  dryly  acquainted  him  with  the 
most  important  purpose  of  the  meeting.  Comrade 
David,  an  army  organizer,  a  Party  member  doing  propa- 
ganda in  the  army  only,  had  come  to  St.  Petersburg  to 
communicate  to  them  the  fact  that  an  infantry  regi-^ 
ment  of  the  city  of  N was  ready  to  revolt  any  min- 
ute. The  members  of  the  local  committee,  including 
David,  had  not  cared  to  undertake  an>i;hing  without 
the  sanction  of  their  older  comrades. 


18  What  Never  Happened 

They  immediately  began  to  discuss  whether  or  not  it 
would  be  advisable  to  start  a  revolt.  They  carried  on 
their  discussion  convinced  that  the  fate  of  two  thousand 
soldiers  hung  upon  their  decision.  They  seemed  to  for- 
get that  when  people  determine  on  murder,  revolt  or  the 
risk  of  their  lives,  they  are  not  influenced  by  the  fact 
that  five  persons  whom  they  do  not  even  know  consider 
the  step  good,  useful,  or  necessary,  but  by  a  multitude 
of  unforeseen  and  fortuitous  circumstances.  And,  still 
more  important,  the  group  who  were  discussing  the 
matter  were  oblivious  of  the  fact  that  no  man  has  con- 
trol over  another's  life  and  that  people  in  a  moment  of 
mortal  danger  are  guided  neither  by  prohibitions,  nor 
by  orders,  nor  even  by  a  sense  of  duty,  but  by  hidden 
motives,  which  are  intelligible  to  them  alone.  And  it 
seemed  quite  natural  and  proper  to  grey-headed  Arseny 
Ivanovich,  to  Doctor  Berg,  to  worn-out  Vera  Andre- 
yevna,  and  to  Bolotov  himself  that  comrade  David,  who 
was  in  close  touch  with  no  more  than  a  dozen  soldiers, 
should  have  come  in  the  name  of  the  whole  regiment 
to  ask  them,  the  unknown  persons,  what  would  be  the 
proper  time  for  the  whole  regiment  to  begin  killing 
and  dying.  And  to  David,  too,  this  seemed  natural  and 
proper. 

David  was  a  sickly,  weak  Jew  with  a  little  blond 
beard.  He  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room  ges- 
ticulating and  stammering  excitedly: 

"Forty  per  cent,  of  the  regiment's  non-commissioned 
officers,"  he  said,  "are  class-conscious.  There  is  a  revo- 
lutionary circle  in  each  company.  The  whole  training 
command  is  with  us — well — the  regiment  is  dissatis- 
fied— a  revolt  is  quite  feasible,  and  the  most  important 
thing,   you   understand,   the   most  important   thing   is 


What  Never  Happened  19 

that  the  soldiers  are  demanding  it.  Our  propaganda 
has  been  carried  on  since  the  autumn.  No  arrests  have 
been  made.  The  colonel  is  a  beast.  When  I  left,  the 
comrades,  representatives  of  the  companies,  had  been 
unanimously  for  it.  And  even  if  you  don't  give  your 
permission,  the  soldiers  will  revolt  anyway."  He  al- 
most shouted  the  last  words,  not  perceiving  that  they 
made  the  whole  discussion  pointless. 

Doctor  Berg,  rubbing  his  thin  white  hands,  looked 
up  at  him  from  under  his  glasses  and  said  carelessly: 

''Allow  me  to  ask,  comrade,  how  large  a  garrison 
have  you  in  your  city?" 

"Garrison?  What  do  you  mean?"  David  seemed 
embarrassed.     "When  I  tell  you — " 

"In  Party  matters  preciseness  is  essential,"  Doctor 
Berg  replied  coldly.  "Won't  you  tell  us,  please,  how 
large  a  garrison  you  have  in  your  city?" 

"Well,  all  right.  We  have  Cossacks  and  a  battery. 
But  what  are  Cossacks  ? ' ' 

"Will  the  battery  join  in  the  revolt?" 

' '  How  funny  for  you  to  ask  me !  How  should  I 
know?" 

"And  the  Cossacks?" 

"The  Cossacks?     No.     Probably  not." 

"Probably  or  certainly?" 

"Oh,  my  God!    Well,  all  right.     Then  certainly." 

"That's  all.  I  thank  you,  comrade,"  said  Doctor 
Berg,  with  a  smile. 

Closing  his  eyes,  he  threw  himself  back  on  the  grease- 
stained  couch,  as  if  to  show  that  he,  a  man  of  business, 
had  already  settled  the  question  of  the  revolt  and  that 
the  rest  held  no  interest  for  him. 

"But  what  have  the  Cossacks  got  to  do  with  it?"  ex- 


20  What  Never  Happened 

claimed  David,  now  completely  disconcerted,  patches  of 
red  staining  his  cheeks.  "I  tell  you,  the  regiment  is 
sure  to  revolt." 

At  these  words  Vera  Andreyevna  ceased  pacing  the 
room  and  stopped  directly  in  front  of  David, 

' '  But  if  the  regiment  is  sure  to  revolt, ' '  she  said  in  an 
irritated  tone,  *'why  have  you  come  to  us?  If  the  regi- 
ment does  not  submit  itself  to  this  committee,  what  is 
all  this  talk  about?  You  kept  on  assuring  us  that  the 
committee  has  been  working.  What  does  its  work  con- 
sist of?     I  can't  see." 

"That's  not  the  point.  Oh,  my  God!"  David  cried 
in  a  wail.  *'I  am  telling  you.  What  am  I  to  do?  If 
the  soldiers  revolt — well?" 

"Here's  my  opinion,"  Arseny  Ivanovich  began  in  a 
conciliatory  tone.  "Of  course,  if  the  boys  want  to  re- 
volt, it  is  difficult  to  restrain  them,  but  not  impossible. 
There  are  Cossacks  and  a  battery  in  the  town.  If  they 
don't  join,  the  revolt  will  be  unsuccessful  again.  And 
we  must  avoid  unsuccessful  uprisings.  We  must — " 
Arseny  Ivanovich  suddenly  changed  his  tone  and  con- 
tinued softly  and  soothingly.  "We  must  have  patience, 
my  benefactor ;  we  must  restrain  ourselves.  The  deeper 
you  plough  the  merrier  you  dance.  So,  my  benefactor, 
in  the  autumn  things  will  be  different,  but  now  it's  not 
advisable,  my  benefactor,  not  advisable." 

"What  do  you  mean — restrain  ourselves?  How  can 
I  restrain  them?  Show  me  how.  Oh,  my  God,  my 
God !  It  is  certainly  peculiar.  How  can  I  hold  them 
back?  If  they  say  they're  going  to  revolt?  You  say 
it's  inadvisable.  But  what  can  I  do?  What  can  the 
committee  do?    We've  been  working.     For  what  pur- 


What  Never  Happened  21 

pose?  For  a  revolt.  "Well,  now  they  want  to  revolt. 
So  what  can  I  do?     Well?     My  God,  my  God!" 

David  began  to  pace  the  room  in  despair.  Vera  An- 
dreyevna  retreated  into  the  corner  by  the  window,  and 
crossed  her  arms  over  her  breast.  She  did  not  want 
to  interfere  in  a  matter  that  seemed  hopeless  to  her. 
Doctor  Berg,  leaning  against  the  back  of  the  sofa,  kept 
his  eyes  closed. 

The  discussion  seemed  futile  to  Bolotov,  and  it  made 
him  uneasy,  too.  lie  felt  that  David,  on  returning  to 
his  city,  would  inevitably  go  to  the  army  and  would 
inevitably  perish.  And  it  became  clear  to  him  that  it 
was  not  a  question  of  whether  David  should  or  should 
not  die,  for  that  was  no  longer  in  their  power; 
but  the  essential  thing  was  that  David  should  die  with 
the  knowledge  that  his  death  was  radiant  and  beautiful 
and  the  Party  had  given  him  its  blessing.  And  yet 
not  knowing  why,  Bolotov  with  unexpected  tears  in  his 
kind  eyes,  rose  abruptly  from  his  chair  and  kissed  David 
warmly. 

"Go  back,  my  dear  boy.  You  are  needed  there  more 
than  here.     God  be  with  you." 

David  went  away  beaming. 

Doctor  Berg,  in  his  businesslike  way,  continued  dis- 
cussing Party  matters  a  long  time — the  proclamations 
had  not  arrived  in  time  again ;  a  strike  was  in  progress 
in  Koro\an's  factory.  Student  Nikandrov  was  under 
arrest;  a  letter  had  been  received  the  day  before  from 
the  peasant  brotherhood;  tomorrow  they  would  have  to 
prepare  an  editorial  for  the  paper,  Twilight. 


CHAPTER  III 

VANYA,  a  dark-haired  youth  of  about  twenty- 
two,  with  high  cheekbones  and  narrow  Mongo- 
lian eyes  like  slits,  was  waiting  for  Bolotov  in 
the  dirty  saloon.  The  Wave,  in  the  Viborg  section.  The 
place  was  smoky  and  hot.  It  smelled  of  beer.  A  sec- 
ond-hand phonograph  was  squeaking. 

' '  Did  you  want  to  see  me  ? " 

Vanya  rose  slightly  from  his  seat. 

"Yes — I  asked — but  I  really  don't  know — where  I 
should  begin.  You  see,  I'm  working  here,  in  this  fac- 
tory." 

"Are  you  a  locksmith?" 

"Yes,  I'm  a  locksmith.  I'm  working  here,  in  the 
factory,  but  I  absolutely  can't  stand  it  any  longer," 

"What?" 

"You'd  better  let  me  join  the  terrorists." 

Bolotov  had  never  taken  part  in  terrorist  "under- 
takings" and  never  had  killed  anybody.  That  was  not 
because  he  saw  in  terror  an  act  of  murder,  but  because 
of  pity  for  the  victim.  He  had  never  asked  himself 
whether  it  was  permissible  or  necessary  to  kill.  That 
question  had  once  for  all  been  decided  by  the  Party, 
and  often  he  wrote,  and  at  meetings  always  emphasized, 
that  "the  comrades  were  forced  to  resort  to  bloody 
methods  with  the  deepest  sorrow."  But  he  himself  did 
not  feel  sorry.  On  the  contrary,  whenever  there  was 
a' successful  bomb  explosion,  he  would  be  very  happy — 

22 


What  Never  Happened  23 

another  enemy  killed.  He  did  not  understand  what  a 
man  feels  when  he  goes  to  kill,  and  he  was  glad,  in  a 
simple-hearted  way,  that  there  were  many  people  in  the 
Party  who  were  ready  to  die  and  to  kill.  And  because 
there  were  many  such  people  and  because  he  looked 
upon  the  Party  as  his  estate,  he  gradually  became  used 
to  the  fact  that  there  are  people  in  the  Part}^  who  kill ; 
and  little  by  little  he  began  to  look  upon  terrorism  as 
upon  an}'-  other  Party  **work." 

"God  knows  I  am  speaking  to  you  as  I  place  a  candle 
before  the  Truthful  One."  Vanya  was  talking  hur- 
riedly, from  time  to  time  looking  up  at  Bolotov  bash- 
fully with  his  black  ej'es.  "I'm  opening  my  heart  to 
you  as  at  confession.  How  can  one  do  otherwise  ?  One 
must  approach  such  work  with  clean  hands.  It  may  be 
that  I  am  as  yet  unworthy  to  die  for  the  revolution. 
You  can  judge  for  yourself  after  I  have  told  you  all. 
You  must  know  that  before  this  I  was  mostly  a  hooli- 
gan. As  my  father  was  one  of  the  Black  Hundreds, 
what  could  I  see  at  home  ?  Nothing  but  cursing,  drink- 
ing, fighting.  Well,  so  I  started  to  drink  and  became 
a  hooligan.  There's  an  ocean  of  wickedness  in  me. 
And  I  don't  know  how  to  cleanse  myself.  If  you  deny 
me  the  chance,  what  shall  I  do?  Because  I  absolutely 
can't  stand  it  any  longer." 

"You  can't?"    Bolotov  smiled. 

"  I  can't.  I  stopped  drinking,  you  know,  and  left 
the  Black  Hundreds.  I  started  to  read  different  books, 
about  land,  for  instance,  or  the  works  of  Mikhailovsky — 
began  to  live  quietly.  Sometimes  I  would  earn  three 
rubles  a  day." 

"Why  did  you  stop  drinking?" 

"How  shall  I  tell  you?     It  was  so  ugly.     What  am  I 


24  What  Never  Happened 

anyway?  A  good-for-nothing.  "Well,  so  I  quit,  of 
course.  Don't  doubt  what  I  tell  you.  I  don't  touch 
the  stuff  any  more.  IIow  can  a  man  belonging  to  the 
Party  drink?  If  he  does,  he  had  better  drop  out  of  the 
work  and  become  a  hooligan  again.  I  figure  it  this  way : 
if  you  stand  for  the  people,  for  land  and  for  freedom, 
then  you  must  keep  a  close  watch  over  yourself  and 
always  be  ready  to  die.  Well,  so  I  kept  on  living  like 
this,  and  I  even  got  married.  Time  went  on,  you  know. 
I  was  then  working  in  Nizhny.  A  strike  broke  out  in 
our  factory.  The  Cossacks  came.  We  debated  this  and 
that,  turned  this  way  and  that  way.  We  piled  up 
stones,  tore  down  a  fence  and  made  a  barricade.  Every- 
thing was  ready.  And  the  Cossacks,  of  course,  began 
shooting.  My  wife  happened  to  come  along.  Well, 
naturally,  you  know — the  Cossacks  killed  her."  He 
ended  in  a  husky  voice  and  became  silent. 

Bolotov  knew  by  heart  these  open-hearted  confessions 
of  workers,  as  he  knew  the  shy,  sincere  tales  of  stu- 
dents, youths,  girls  and  old  men — of  all  those  number- 
less soldiers  of  terror  who  were  dying  for  the  revolution. 
But  now  as  he  listened  to  Vanya  and  looked  into  his 
trusting  eyes,  he  felt  uneasy.  He  thought:  "He  be- 
lieves in  me ;  he  is  certain  that  at  any  moment  I  am 
ready  to  do  what  he  would  do  so  simply  and  unhesi- 
tatingly— that  I  am  ready  to  die,  of  course.  And  I? 
Why  am  I  still  living?  Because,"  he  immediately  an- 
swered in  his  thoughts,  "because  I  am  essential  to  the 
whole  revolution,  to  the  whole  Party,  and  also  because 
there  must  be  a  division  of  labour."  But  this  time  he 
was  unable  to  make  himself  believe  these  empty  words, 
which  his  comrades,  Doctor  Berg,  with  special  empha- 
sis had  repeated  so  often.     In  the  depths  of  his  heart  he 


What  Never  Happened  25 

had  wanted  to  agree  with  them.  *'Vanya  might  argue 
in  the  same  way,"  his  thoughts  ran  on,  "Vanya,  too,  is 
convinced  that  the  whole  Party  needs  him.  Why  am  I 
better  than  he?  But  he  will  not  say  so.  His  wife  was 
killed,  and  he  will  also  kill,  if  he  has  not  already  done  so. 
And  I?"  "With  an  effort  he  rid  himself  of  these 
thoughts  and  turned  to  Yanya. 

''Well,  what  happened  next?"  he  asked,  filling  the 
glasses  with  beer. 

"So  they  killed  my  wife.  Well,  after  a  little  while 
I  said  to  the  factory  workers:  'You  know,  boys,  I've 
made  up  my  mind  to  kill  Gavrilov.'  Gavrilov  was  our 
superintendent,  a  chained  dog,  not  a  man.  The  boys 
told  me  to  quit  it.  '  What  is  Gavrilov  anyway,  Yanya  ? ' 
they  said.  'He  isn't  worth  soiling  your  hands  on.' 
'No,'  I  said,  'even  a  bug  is  meat.  Why  should  Gavri- 
lov live  ? '  But  they  talked  me  out  of  it.  So,  of  course, 
I  became  very  sad.  My  heart  kept  on  aching  and  ach- 
ing. I  became  restless,  lost  my  appetite  and  sleep.  I 
went  on  thinking  and  thinking — I'm  opening  my  whole 
heart  to  you — and  at  last  I  came  to  this  conclusion: 
that  man  is  a  man  who  can  act  for  himself.  I  had  a 
friend,  Assistant  Surgeon  Yasha.  So  I  went  to  him  and 
said:  'Yasha,  my  dear  friend,  please  let  me  have  some 
poison.'  'Wliat  do  you  want  poison  for?'  'Why,  to 
exterminate  rats,  of  course.'  'Rats?'  he  said.  'So.' 
He  smiled,  but  he  said:  'All  right.'  'Please  let  me 
have  something  strong,'  I  asked  him,  'a  sure  thing  and 
no  mistake.'  'All  right,'  he  said,  'don't  worry.'  He 
let  me  have  some  poison.  I  went  home  to  my  village. 
Cossacks  were  then  stationed  in  our  village  because 
there  had  been  an  uprising  of  our  peasants.  My  mother 
wasn't  living.     My  father  asked  me:     'Where  is  Av- 


26  What  Never  Happened 

dotya?'  meaning  my  wife.  'Avdotya?'  I  said,  and  I 
told  him  everything.  My  sisters-in-law  made  some 
cakes  for  Christmas.  I  said  to  my  father:  'Invite  a 
few  Cossacks  to  the  house,  father.  I  want  to  treat  them 
to  some  of  our  cakes.'  Father  was  surprised.  'Have 
you  gone  crazy,  or  what?'  *You  just  ask  them  to 
come,'  I  said.  He  looked  at  me  and  didn't  answer. 
The  Cossacks  came,  four  of  them.  They  said  their 
prayers  and  then  seated  themselves  at  table.  They  took 
some  wine  and  then  began  eating  the  cakes.  I  told  my 
father:  'You'd  better  not  eat  those  cakes.'  So  he 
didn't.  I  looked  on.  What's  going  to  happen?  They 
each  had  a  cake.  Nothing  happened.  'Did  Yasha  fool 
me  ? '  thought  I  to  myself.  '  Impossible. '  I  really  don 't 
know  how  to  go  on."  Vanya  stopped  abruptly  and 
reddened. 
"Why?" 

"I  committed  a  great  sin." 
"Don't  mind.  Tell  me  what  happened." 
"Well,  all  right."  Vanya  sighed.  "I  was  sure  some 
mistake  had  been  made.  So  it  was  all  a  comedy.  But 
then  I  saw  one  of  the  Cossacks  sway  and  drop  his  head 
on  the  table  as  if  he  were  drunk.  'Then  it's  the  real 
thing,'  I  thought  to  myself.  Next  I  saw  another  one 
get  dopey  and  turn  quiet.  I  kept  on  offering  them 
cake  and  wine.  'Eat,  my  friends,'  I  said;  'we  are  glad 
to  have  you  with  us. '    Well,  all  four  of  them  died. ' ' 

Bolotov  looked  at  Vanya  in  astonishment.  It  was 
hard  for  him  to  believe  that  this  labourer  with  the  ordi- 
nary drab  face  of  the  Mongol  and  the  trusting  eyes 
liad  done  such  a  terrible  deed.  It  was  still  harder  for 
hira  to  believe  that  he  alone,  without  an^-body's  help  or 
advice,  had  conceived  and  carried  into  effect  such  a  sly. 


What  Never  Happened  27 

treacherous  plan.  "Were  all  to  revenge  themselves 
like  that,  we  should  long  ago  have  had  no  gallows,  no 
Cossacks,  and  no  whipping  rods.  Can  I  be  so  revenge- 
ful?" Bolotov  asked  himself,  and  immediately  found  his 
answer :  "I  can 't  take  such  revenge  because  it 's  villain- 
ous. It  is  neither  revolutionary  nor  a  terrorist  act,  and 
I  am  a  revolutionist  and  a  member  of  the  Party."  But 
even  these  thoughts  could  not  reassure  him. 

**Well,"  Vanya  went  on,  glancing  sidewise  at  Bolo- 
tov. "Well,  I  ran  away,  of  course.  A  search  was 
made.  A  number  of  government  officials  came  smell- 
ing about.     But  they  couldn't  find  me." 

Vanya  was  silent.  The  saloon  was  crowded.  The 
phonograph  kept  up  its  incessant  squeaking.  The  voices 
of  drunken,  cursing  men  filled  the  place.  There  was  a 
clatter  of  dishes.  Waiters  were  hurrying  to  and  fro 
between  the  tables.  Bolotov,  with  his  head  resting  on 
his  hands,  was  lost  in  thought.  "Wliat  am  I  to  say? 
What  can  I  say?  What  right  have  I  to  talk  to  him? 
Bah !  This  is  all  nonsense.  He 's  waiting  for  my  deci- 
sion, and  I  must  give  it  to  him.  Everything  else  is  non- 
sense and  cowardice,  and  I  must  not  think  of  it." 

"So  I  may  hope?"  asked  Vanya  timidly.  "I  under- 
stand perfectly  what  it  is  that  I  did.  But,  please,  be  so 
kind,  let  me  serve  the  Cause.  I  can't  stand  all  these 
outrages."  He  brought  his  fist  down  on  the  table 
angrily. 

Bolotov  raised  his  head.  He  was  going  to  tell  Vanya 
that  the  comrades  appreciated  his  devotion  and  reso- 
luteness. But  instead,  in  total  oblivion  of  these  pre- 
scribed words  and  of  his  duty  towards  the  Party,  he 
turned  pale  and,  without  looking  at  Vanya,  said: 

"I  don't  occupy  myself  with  terrorism." 


28  What  Never  Happened 

"What?" 

Bolotov  repeated,  raising  his  voice  and  speaking 
sharply : 

"I  am  not  the  person  to  speak  to.  I  don't  do  terror- 
ist work." 

Giving  Vanya  no  time  to  come  to  himself,  he  rose  and 
left  the  saloon.  He  felt  it  was,  perhaps,  the  first  time 
he  had  dared  to  speak  the  truth.  The  unfamiliar  feel- 
ing was  so  strong  that  he  halted.  "Why  did  I  tell  him 
that?"  He  was  uneasy.  "Am  I  not  a  terrorist? 
Wasn't  I  in  duty  bound  to  listen  to  him?  Am  I  not 
responsible  for  bloodshed?  For  the  blood  of  those  Cos- 
sacks whom  Vanya  killed?  For  Vanya 's  own  blood 
that  may  be  shed?  Haven't  I  made  matters  worse? 
He  could  not  understand  me.  Why  have  I  confused 
him?" 

He  could  find  no  answer  to  his  questioning. 

On  his  left  flowed  the  deep  waters  of  the  Neva,  silent 
and  majestic.  Beyond  he  could  see  the  black  outlines 
of  the  huge,  unlighted  Winter  Palace.  A  light  rain 
was  falling. 


CHAPTER  IV 

SINCE  the  day  when  Bolotov  read  the  news  of  the 
Tsu  Shima  battle,  he  had  been  weighed  down  by  a 
vague  unrest.  There  were  times  when  he  could 
not  fall  asleep  until  morning.  He  was  not  wearied  by 
the  harassing  life  of  a  conspirator  any  more  than  be- 
fore; he  had  long  ceased  to  understand  or  appreciate 
that  secure,  peaceful  existence  which  he  termed  the 
"bourgeois"  life.  But  what  had  been  sacred  and  posi- 
tive, what  had  been  determined,  and  firmly  determined, 
long  ago,  now  seemed  obscure  and  undetermined  again. 
The  wide  familiar  highway  had  suddenly  brought  him  to 
a  trackless  wilderness. 

Tonight  again  he  could  not  sleep.  It  had  been  a  busy 
day  full  of  troubles.  The  student  committee  had  been 
arrested,  and  Bolotov  and  Doctor  Berg  forced  to  seek 
out  new  friends  and  to  make  new  connections.  He  re- 
turned home  late  at  night  and,  without  turning  on  a 
light,  undressed  and  got  into  bed.  He  tried  not  to  re- 
turn to  those  thoughts  which  had  haunted  him  during 
the  last  few  days.  "What  nonsense!"  he  said  to  him- 
self. "Isn't  it  true  that  the  war  is  a  government 
war  and  not  the  people's  war?  Of  course  it's  true. 
Therefore,  if  the  Japanese  have  won,  whose  defeat 
is  it?  Obviously  the  defeat  of  the  Government.  Ex- 
actly." The  yellowish  rays  from  a  street  lamp  came  in 
through  the  window  and  stretching  upwards  like  cob- 
web threads  faded  into  shadow  on  the  ceiling.     "The 

29 


30  What  Never  Happened 

Government  is  our  worst  enemy,"  he  murmured,  as  he 
tried  to  fall  asleep.  "Therefore,  if  the  Japanese  de- 
feated the  Government,  who  are  the  gainers  ?  But  no,  no, 
I  don 't  wajit  to  think  about  it. "  A  heavy  truck  rumbled 
over  the  cobble  stones  outside.  Again  disconnected 
thoughts  thronged  to  his  mind.  "We  are  the  gainers. 
Arseny  Ivanovieh  is  of  the  same  opinion.  .  .  .  Arseny 
Ivanovich.  .  .  .  The  water  is  working  our  mill.  .  .  . 
Exactly.  Then  we  ought  to  be  glad?  .  .  .  No,  it  isn't 
so.  Who  is  responsible  for  the  death  of  those  people? 
For  Sasha's  death? 

"And  brother  from  his  brother  is  torn, 
And  son  and  mother  hurled  asunder." 

We  ought  to  be  glad?  About  what?  But  what's  the 
matter  with  me?  A  people  deserves  the  government  it 
has.  .  .  .  Who  said  that?  The  words  are  meaningless. 
.  .  .  Are  the  people  responsible?" 

He  thought  of  Bolotovo,  his  father's  estate  in  the  gov- 
ernment of  Orel.  It  was  an  old  manor-house,  where 
he  had  been  born  and  brought  up.  A  house  with  a  red 
roof  and  with  colonnades  in  the  Alexandrine  style. 
Beyond  the  stream,  lined  with  shrubbery,  spread  the 
village — Noviye  Viselky.  He  saw  the  village  elder 
Karp,  and  Tikhon  the  Lame  One,  a  crippled  little  peas- 
ant in  a  torn  shirt,  and  barefoot  Vanka,  the  shepherd. 
He  recalled  a  certain  hot  Sunday.  He  was  standing 
near  the  mill-dam.  The  sun  was  setting.  In  the  dis- 
tance showed  spots  of  red  and  blue  and  yellow — ^the 
women  of  the  village.  "So  they  are  responsible.  .  .  . 
Inspector  Karp,  Shepherd  Vanka,  and  the  housekeeper 
Malanya  Petrovna.  Responsible  for  what?  For  the 
fact  that  we  have  such  a  government.    For  the  war. 


What  Never  Happened  31 

Inspector  Karp  responsible  for  our  war  with  Japan,  for 
our  defeat  at  Tsu  Sliima  ?  How  ridiculous. ' '  But  a  mo- 
ment later  he  thought:  "But  if  Karp  had  not  wanted 
it,  we  would  have  had  no  war?  If  the  Karps  had  re- 
fused to  go  to  war,  there  would  have  been  no  Tsu  Shima  ? 
Then  why  are  they  going?  "Why  are  they  the  slaves  of 
Plehve  and  Stoessel?  .  .  .  But  suppose  Inspector  Karp 
should  also  not  want  a  revolution?  Nonsense.  .  .  .  By 
God,  what  nonsense.  .  .  .  "What  did  Arseny  Ivanovich 
say  the  other  day?  The  infantry  regiment  and  David. 
And  Vanya  .  .  .  Vanya  and  Inspector  Karp.  .  .  .  No, 
I  mustn't  think,  I  mustn't  think.  ..."  Bolotov  closed 
his  eyes  in  utter  weariness.  The  street-lamp  flickered 
and  went  out. 

The  sky  began  to  pale  in  the  east.  The  birds  began 
to  twitter  cautiously  in  the  apple-trees.  Far  away,  in 
the  Znamensky  Church,  the  bells  began  to  ring  for  morn- 
ing prayers.  Bolotov  got  up.  Around  him  were  the 
familiar  objects  of  his  shabby  room :  the  table  with  its 
paper  cover,  on  it  the  copper  samovar,  and  on  the  walls 
oleographs  from  the  magazine  Niva.  For  the  first 
time  he  felt  sick  of  it  all.  The  same  objects,  always  the 
same.  The  same  thoughts,  the  same  words,  the  same 
Arseny  Ivanovich,  the  same  Berg,  the  same  "work,"  the 
same  danger,  the  same  enemy — the  secret  service.  And 
above  all,  the  vagueness  of  everything.  He  was  now  con- 
vincd  that  falsehood  lurked  somewhere  in  his  life.  On 
the  table  strewn  with  cigarette  butts  lay  sheets  of  paper, 
on  which  was  written  in  a  fine  hand  the  editorial  for 
the  paper.  The  Dawn.  He  picked  up  the  sheets  and 
read:  ""We  are  concerned  with  political  terror  as  one 
of  the  methods  in  our  fight,  as  one  element  in  our  party 
tactics.     Only  a  methodical  system  of  terror,  which  eon- 


32  What  Never  Happened 

forms  to  the  other  tactics  and  which  is  in  harmony  with 
the  aims  and  general  conditions  of  our  fight,  can  come 
under  discussion.  ..."  As  he  read  these  lines,  they 
seemed  to  him  cold,  indifferent  and  hypocritical.  He 
felt  ashamed.  ''Have  I  really  written  these  words?  A 
methodical  system  of  terror.  ...  A  terror  that  arouses 
.  .  .  that  disorganizes  .  .  .  that  dominates.  .  .  .  What 
childish  arguments.  And  about  what?  About  blood. 
About  Vanya.  About  the  living  man  Vanya,  who  will 
go  and  kill  another  man.  .  .  .  And  we?  And  I?  .  .  . 
He  will  kill  and  I  shall  w-rite  a  profound  and  highly 
scientific  treatise  on  'The  revolutionary  initiative  of  the 
minority'  and  will  try  to  prove  that  'the  terror  of  re- 
venge, the  terror  of  despair,  the  terror  of  fury  is  value- 
less,' and  I  shall  say  other  things  that  are  false  and 
meaningless  and  futile,  .  .  .  And  Inspector  Karp  will 
read  it.  .  .  .  "Will  read  it  and  will,  of  course,  join  us." 
He  smiled.  He  thought  of  Doctor  Berg,  a  tall,  erect, 
bald-headed  man,  who  always  wore  high  collars.  He 
recalled  his  voice,  so  expressive  of  self -content  and  self- 
assurance:  "In  party  matters  preciseness  is  essential, 
comrade.  ..."  Then  he  recalled  the  flushed  excited 
face  of  David.  "And  David  will  die  and  so  will  Vanya. 
.  .  .  They  will  both  hang.  And  I  shall  write  in  the 
Party  organ:  *Our  comrades  went  to  the  gallows  hon- 
ourably and  courageously.  .  .  .'  Wherein,  then,  lies  the 
truth?  It  can  not  be  in  the  fact  that  I  rejoice,  when 
tens  of  thousands  of  Russians  drown  in  the  Japanese 
sea,  when  Sasha  drowns.  .  .  .  And  it  can  not  be  in  the 
fact  that  Vanya  faces  death,  while  I  praise  or  condemn 
him,  nor  can  it  be  in  the  fact  that  Inspector  Karp  rolls 
cigarettes  with  the  paper  on  which  my  lightly  written 


What  Never  Happened  33 

articles  are  printed.  .  .  .  Wherein,  then,  lies  the 
truth?" 

Dawn  was  breaking.  Beyond  the  Okhta  the  sky- 
flamed  red,  and  fiery  golden  rays  poured  into  the  room. 
But  the  room  only  looked  dingier,  as  when  the  sunlight 
reveals  the  deepening  wrinkles  on  a  withered  face. 

Bolotov  felt  he  was  denouncing  his  own  life,  which  had 
seemed  to  him  faultless.  And  for  the  last  time  he  tried 
to  check  his  disturbing  train  of  thoughts.  "Why  is 
Arseny  Ivanovich  undisturbed?  Everything  is  simple 
and  clear  to  him.  The  revolution  is  a  mathematical 
problem.  Vanya  goes  forward  and  dies.  Very  well. 
Hail  to  the  Party!  Arseny  Ivanovich  directs  matters. 
Very  well.  Hail  to  the  Party !  Division  of  labour.  .  .  . 
And  Berg,  too,  is  undisturbed.  But  so  are  they  respon- 
sible for  bloodshed.  Or,  perhaps,  they're  not?  Per- 
haps Vanya  alone  is  responsible  for  everything?  Then 
who  is  in  the  right?  .  .  .  'I'm  opening  my  heart  to 
you'  .  .  .  Vanya  opens  his  heart  to  me.  .  .  .  And  how 
about  me  to  him  ?  How  about  us  all  to  him  ?  To  us  he 
is  either  a  'hero'  or  a  'fanatic  of  terror,'  or — worst 
of  all — 'a  worshipper  of  the  bomb,'  'an  unreasoning 
bomb-thrower.'  .  .  .  Wherein,  then,  lies  the  truth?" 


CHAPTER  V 

LIKE  Bolotov,  David,  too,  was  often  a  prey  to 
vague  forebodings.  But  it  was  not  the  Party 
that  worried  him.  He  knew  very  little  about 
the  Party;  only  those  sensational,  but  really  insignifi- 
cant, items,  which  are  published  in  Party  newspapers. 
He  knew  that  all  over  Russia  there  were  people,  beloved 
comrades,  who  hated  the  things  he  hated  and  who  de- 
manded the  things  that  he  demanded.  He  also  knew 
that  in  every  city  there  were  committees,  and  he  thought 
that  these  committees  were  ' '  working ' '  under  the  super- 
vision of  distinguished,  experienced  and  wise  people, 
who  lived  in  St.  Petersburg.  He  had  faith  in  those  peo- 
ple. He  would  never  have  dared  to  ask  who  they  were 
and  whence  they  obtained  their  unlimited  authority. 
It  was  enough  for  him  to  know  that  there  were  such 
people  as  Bolotov,  Arseny  Ivanovich,  and  Doctor  Berg, 
and  that  they  were  constantly  safeguarding  the  inter- 
ests of  the  Party  and  would  not  let  any  harm  come  to 
it.  Since  he  knew  nothing  of  the  Party  itself,  he  im- 
agined it  to  be  still  stronger  and  purer  and  more  pow^er- 
ful  than  it  actually  was.  But  what  he  was  chiefly  con- 
cerned with  was  his  own  town  with  his  little  revolution- 
ary committee.  He  was  not  disturbed  by  the  fact  that 
there  were  almost  no  revolutionists  in  his  town.  He 
thought  that  this  committee  was  an  exception,  that  in 
other  more  fortunate  towns  there  were  thousands  of 
devoted  Party  members.    He  also  thought  that  were  the 

34 


What  Never  Happened  35 

local  comrades — the  volunteer  Seriozha,  the  private 
Avdeyev  and  the  midwife  Rachel — replaced  by  men  like 
Bolotov  or  Arseny  Ivanovich,  the  local  work  would  have 
been  improved  and  hastened.  He  thought  that  instead 
of  three  dozen  soldiers  the  whole  regiment  could  then  be 
induced  to  join  the  Party.  And  instead  of  a  few  work- 
men's circles  all  the  factory  workers  could  be  induced 
to  attend  the  lectures  about  Karl  Marx.  But  even  as  it 
was,  there  were  many  things  to  attend  to.  The  days 
were  spent  in  petty  propaganda,  in  printing  the  com- 
mittee's proclamations,  in  running  about  in  the  inter- 
ests of  the  Party.  He  was  too  much  taken  up  by  this 
work  to  observe  life  around  him — the  wretched  city- 
dwellers,  the  dark  unknown  life  of  priests,  merchants, 
officials  and  peasants,  of  all  those  unseen  and  all-power- 
ful forces  upon  which  would  depend  the  last  victorious 
effort — the  outcome  of  the  revolution.  And  he  believed 
that  the  Party  was  invincible  and,  like  Bolotov,  he  had 
faith  that  ' '  the  stern  day  of  judgment  and  wrath  would 
come. ' ' 

On  arriving  home  from  St.  Petersburg  David  went  di- 
rectly from  the  railroad  depot  to  his  friend  Seriozha. 

He  crossed  Moscow  Street  and  the  solitary  Soborna 
Plaza.  His  way  lay  along  vacant  lots,  long  vegetable 
gardens  and  low,  wretched  houses.  The  sky  was  grey. 
The  wet  birch-trees  looked  sad.  Lilacs  were  abloom  in 
the  park.  It  was  a  leaden  day.  Although  it  was  June, 
it  looked  like  Autumn,  like  September. 

David  saw  neither  the  rain,  nor  the  dreary  surround- 
ings. ''How  nice  Bolotov  is,"  he  thought,  trudging 
along  the  wet  pavements,  ''and  so  is  Arseny  Ivanovich, 
and  all  of  them.  And  I,  David  Cohn,  will  now  carry 
out  the  will  of  God,  will  die  for  the  revolution,  for  the 


36  What  Never  Happened 

Party,  for  land  and  freedom.  .  .  .  How  beautiful.  .  .  . 
How  good.  .  .  .  And,  of  course,  the  revolt  will  succeed, 
otherwise  Bolotov  would  not  have  consented.  .  .  ."  It 
now  seemed  to  him  that  Bolotov  had  given  his  permis- 
sion and  that  his  permission  was  equivalent  to  law. 
And  it  also  seemed  to  him  that  only  Bolotov  knew  that 
he,  David  Cohn,  would  die  and  that  only  Bolotov  pitied 
and  appreciated  him.  And  though  he  could  hardly  im- 
agine his  own  execution,  the  gallows,  the  hangman,  his 
last  days  in  prison,  and  though  death  was  only  a  mean- 
ingless word  to  him,  still  he  felt  pity  for  himself.  * '  But 
oh,  well,  two  deaths  are  impossible  and  one  is  unavoid- 
able," and  he  shook  his  curly  flaxen  hair.  "How  beau- 
tiful are  thy  tents,  0  Jacob,  thy  dwellings,  O  Israel!" 

"What's  the  good  news?"  was  Seriozha's  greeting. 

"Hurrah!     They  gave  their  permission!" 

Seriozha,  a  tall,  bronzed  soldier  in  an  unbuttoned 
white  blouse  with  epaulets,  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 

"What  are  you  so  glad  about?" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  David  struck  his  hands  to- 
gether. "That's  funny.  .  .  .  Suppose,  they  had  not 
given  their  permission?     Then  what?    Well?" 

Seriozha  took  a  cigarette  from  the  table,  slowly  lighted 
it  and  answered  quietly: 

"One  doesn't  carry  timber  to  the  woods." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean,  they  have  come  to  a  decision  without  St. 
Petersburg 's  permission. ' ' 

' '  Without  Petersburg  ? ' ' 

"Yes." 

"Who  decided?     How?" 

"The  soldiers  did." 

* '  What  ?    What  ?    Speak  up,  for  God 's  sake. ' ' 


What  Never  Happened  37 

*' Nothing.     Tomorrow." 

"Tomorrow?" 

"Yes,  tomorrow." 

"Impossible." 

Seriozha  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

And,  as  it  always  happens  when  something  that  was 
distant  and  alarming  suddenly  becomes  near  and  un- 
avoidable, David  felt  that  all  his  recent  thoughts  about 
death  were  valueless,  just  as  leisurely  and  irresponsible 
words  are  valueless.  He  felt  a  strange  and  oppressive 
weight,  as  though  some  one  were  bearing  him  down  to 
the  ground.  "Tomorrow.  ..."  he  thought.  "To- 
morrow. .  .  .  Not  in  a  month,  not  even  in  a  week,  but 
tomorrow.  .  .  .  God,  give  me  strength.  .  .  .  God,  to- 
morrow. ..." 

' '  And  the  committee  ? "  he  asked  dully. 

"What  about  the  committee?" 

' '  Have  the  committee  decided  ? ' ' 

"Of  course,  they  have." 

"That's  strange." 

"What's  strange?" 

"How  could  they,  without  me?" 

"Without  you?  Officer  Voronkov  hit  Avdeyev  yes- 
terday, while  he  was  on  sentry  duty." 

"Well?" 

"Avdeyev  hit  him  back." 

"Well?" 

"Nothing.    Avdeyev  will  be  executed." 

David  dropped  weakly  into  a  chair.  The  dying 
samovar  was  singing  noisily. 

Looking  out  of  the  window,  through  the  hazy  mist, 
one  could  see  the  green  sad-looking  gardens. 

"And  you?"  David  asked  finally. 


38  What  Never  Happened 

"What  about  me?" 

* '  Are  you  in  favour  of  a  revolt  ?  Why  are  you  silent  ? 
Well,  why  don 't  you  answer  ? ' ' 

"It's  all  futile,"  Seriozha  answered  in  a  low  voice; 
"people  will  die  in  vain.     But  we  mustn't  argue." 

"We  mustn't  argue,"  David  repeated  after  him. 

"We  must  obey,"  Seriozha  finished. 

"We  must  obey,"  David  repeated. 

"Yes,  we  must  obey.  You  and  I  will  put  on  officers' 
uniforms.  Early  in  the  morning,  before  the  roll-call, 
we  will  go  down  to  the  barracks  of  the  fourth  company. 
I'm  well  known  there.  We  will  try  to  incite  the  soldiers 
to  an  uprising.  Unless  they're  lying,  the  soldiers  ought 
to  respond. ' ' 

"So  .  .  .  ."  David  began  irresolutely. 

"Do  you  understand?" 

"Yes,  I  understand.    But  listen." 

"What?" 

"Listen,  I'm  a  Jew.  ..." 

"Well?" 

"Is  it  wise  for  me  to  disguise  myself  as  an  officer ? ' ' 

"As  you  wish." 

They  were  both  silent.  The  samovar  kept  up  its 
singing.  Suddenly  David  felt  an  intoxicating  joy,  as 
though  the  thing  he  had  wished  for,  had  dreamed  of,  had 
come  true.  "Yes,  yes,  I  shall  die  for  the  Party,"  he 
thought.  His  grey  eyes  darkened  with  excitement, 
lie  jumped  up  and  began  to  pace  the  room.  He  stopped 
directly  in  front  of  Seriozha  and  stammering  and  gestic- 
ulating as  usual  he  began  to  speak  hotly,  forgetful  of 
self. 

"Great  is  the  God  of  our  forefathers.  ...  Do  you 
remember  Nekrasov,  Seriozha  ?  .  .  . 


What  Never  Happened  39 

"In  all  the  world  there  can  be 
But  two  roads  only  for  the  free 
From  which  to  choose. 
Test  what  your  strength  of  pride  is, 
Test  what  your  force  of  will  is, 
Then  go  and  choose." 

"We  have  taken  this  road  and  we  shall  follow  it  until 
death.  .  .  .  And  our  soul  shall  not  repent,  and  our 
hearts  shall  not  be  silent.  Is  it  not  so?  Is  it  not  so, 
Seriozha?  Last  year  I  witnessed  a  pogrom.  .  .  .  Wo 
had  a  self-defence  squad  of  about  twenty  men.  I  be- 
longed to  the  first  division  and  on  the  first  evening  we 
stumbled  on  some  hooligans.  It  was  dark.  We  could 
hear  them  pillaging  a  house.  People  were  crying  for 
help,  children  weeping.  Sasha  Goldenberg  was  there. 
He  ordered  us  to  shoot.  Bullets  came  back  in  answer. 
Sasha  ordered  us  to  shoot  again.  The  hooligans  scat- 
tered. Next  day  was  Saturday.  Sasha  Goldenberg  and 
I  were  at  headquarters.  An  attorney  had  volunteered 
his  house  to  us,  so  we  were  sitting  there.  The  first 
group  went  to  the  market-place,  the  second  to  the  out- 
skirts of  the  city,  the  third  remained  with  us.  Well, 
we  were  sitting  in  readiness  in  the  attorney's  house. 
We  waited.  We  hadn't  slept  for  two  nights.  We  were 
very  sleepy.  We  felt  tired  and  hungry.  .  .  .  We 
couldn't  go  near  the  window  for  fear  of  the  Cossacks. 
So  we  dozed  away,  on  chairs,  on  the  floor,  on  beds.  An 
hour  passed.  Well,  two.  .  .  .  Well,  perhaps,  three.  .  .  . 
Nothing  happened.  .  .  .  Everything  was  still.  ...  It 
was  getting  dark.  We  made  no  light,  so  as  not  to  be 
seen  from  the  street.  We  had  had  nothing  to  eat  since 
morning.  .  .  .  The  owner  of  the  house  would  come  in, 
look  at  us  and  sigh.  .  .  .  We  felt  depressed.  .  .  .  Sud- 
denly, towards  night  the  telephone  rang.     A  merchant, 


40  What  Never  Happened 

by  the  name  of  Fishel,  living  on  Kirillov  Street,  was  call- 
ing. And  Kirillov  Street,  you  know,  is  at  the  other  end 
of  the  town — not  one  of  our  squad  was  there.  I  an- 
swered the  telephone : 

*'  'What  do  you  wish,  Mr.  Fishel?'  I  could  hear  his 
voice  trembling:  'Is  that  you,  David?'  'It's  I,' 
I  said.  'David,  dear  David,  the  hooligans  are  com- 
ing. .  .  .'  'Are  they  far  away?'  'They  just  turned 
into  Kirillov  Street.'  Isaid:'Sh.  .  .  .  That's  nothing. 
.  .  .  You  wait.*  I  turned  to  the  men:  'Up!'  All 
jumped  up.  In  a  moment  all  were  gone,  only  the 
house-owner  remained  sighing.  The  telephone  rang 
again.  'What  do  you  wish?'  'David,  for  God's 
sake,  David.  ...  If  you  are  a  good  Jew.  .  .  .'  I  said: 
'The  self-defence  have  been  sent  out.  Wait.'  'God 
be  blessed,  I  shall  wait.  .  .  .'  In  five  minutes  the  tele- 
phone again:  'David.  .  .  .*  'What  do  you  wish?' 
'  David,  where  is  the  self-defence  ?  .  .  .  The  hooligans  are 
five  houses  away.  .  .  .  They're  burning  everything.  .  .  . 
I  have  children.  .  .  .'  I  knew  him  well,  this  Fishel. 
He  was  a  stout,  red-faced  man,  who  gave  us  money  once 
in  a  while.  I  knew  he  was  shivering  there,  the  poor 
man.  .  .  .  Well,  what  could  you  tell  him?  He  had 
children.  ...  I  said:  'Hide  your  wife  and  children 
somewhere,  in  the  garret  or  in  the  cellar.  .  .  .'  I  hung 
up  the  receiver  and  thought  to  myself:  'Suppose  the 
boys  come  late?  .  .  .  What  then?'  A  moment  later 
the  telephone  again:  'God,  God.  .  .  .  Good,  merciful 
God  of  Israel!  .  .  .'  'Where  are  the  children?'  I 
asked.  And  he  could  hardly  answer:  'The  children 
are  in  the  ...  in  the  .  .  .  cellar  .  .  .  chil  .  .  . 
dren.  .  .  .'  'Wait,  I  said,,  and  have  faith.  The  self- 
defence  men  are  on  their  way.'    But  I  thought  to  my- 


What  Never  Happened  41 

Belf:  'Yes,  on  the  way,  but  suppose  they  have  met 
Cossacks?  .  .  .  Well?  What  then?  .  .  .'  Again  the 
telephone:  'The  pogrom  is  right  near  me,  two  houses 
away.  .  .  .'  What  could  I  do?  I  began  to  run  about 
like  a  madman,  .  .  .  And  the  telephone  kept  ringing, 
ringing,  ringing.  ...  I  picked  up  the  receiver:  'Well, 
what?'  I  could  hear  him  barking  like  a  dog:  'Aa- 
aah.  .  .  .  David.  .  .  .  Our  God  is  great!  .  .  .  David. 
.  .  .  God.  .  .  .  Help!  .  .  ."* 

"Well?" 

"Well,  God  saved  him.  They  had  almost  got  him. 
Another  minute,  just  one  minute,  and  he  would  have 
been  done  for.  Our  men  came  just  in  time.  But, 
you  know,  I  shall  never  in  my  life  forget  those  few  min- 
utes, when  the  telephone  kept  ringing  and  ringing  and 
our  men  were  somewhere  on  the  way.  Even  now  I  can 
see  that  man  Fishel  as  he  stood  pale  and  trembling  at  the 
telephone,  and  the  children  in  the  cellar.  .  .  .  His  wife 
and  four  little  children.  ..." 

David  sat  down  at  the  table  and  emptied  a  glass  of 
cold  tea.  Immediately  he  jumped  up  again.  He  was 
now  sure  that  death  was  not  terrible,  but  joyous,  and 
that  to  die  for  the  Party  would  be  a  rare,  enviable 
honour.  Now  he  was  sure  he  had  been  born  for  this 
one  purpose — to  give  up  his  life  freely  for  the  Cause. 
And  eyes  sparkling,  he  raised  his  voice  to  a  shout  in  his 
exaltation : 

"I'm  happy,  I'm  proud  that  tomorrow  will  see  the 
end!  ...  I'm  proud!  .  .  .  Don't  you  think  we  shall 
succeed?  .  .  .  You're  silent  again.  .  .  .  Why?  .  .  . 
Tell  me,  have  you  no  faith  in  our  success?" 

"It's  in  God's  hands,  David." 

"Oh,   you're   always   that   way.  .  .  .  What   do   you 


42  What  Never  Happened 

mean  in  God's  hands?  I  don't  know  of  God.  .  .  .  My 
forefathers  did,  but  I  don't.  ...  In  my  opinion: 

"Test  what  your  strength  of  pride  is, 
Test  what  your  force  of  will  is." 

God  won't  order  our  life,  we  shall.  .  .  .  "We  shall  order 
it,  with  our  own  blood.  He  can't  help  us,  we  must  help 
ourselves.  He  can't  protect  us,  we  must  do  it  ourselves. 
He  will  not  down  our  foes,  we  must  do  it  ourselves ! ' ' 

Seriozha  smiled.     He  had  a  kind  smile,  like  a  girl's. 

* '  I  think  you  have  more  God  in  you,  than  I, "  he  said 
quietly. 

"That's  strange.  .  .  .  Why?" 

"You  saved  Fishel,  for  instance." 

"I  saved  Fishel?" 

"Who  else?" 

"  Not  I ;  the  self-defence. ' ' 

"It's  all  the  same.  .  .  .  You  love  Fishel." 

"I  love  Fishel?     I?" 

"Of  course." 

"No,  Fishel  is  not  on  our  side.    He's  an  enemy." 

"You  love  even  your  enemy." 

"What  do  you  mean,  love?  Would  you  let  him  be 
killed?" 

"Listen,"  Seriozha  continued  quietly,  "tomorrow  we 
are  going  to  the  barracks.  You  say  we  will  die.  Well, 
if  we  have  to,  we  shall  die.  But  that 's  not  all ;  we  may 
have  to  kill  others  too." 

"There.  .  .  .  That's  strange.  .  .  .  Well,  of  course, 
we'll  kill.  Did  you  ever  witness  a  pogrom?  Did  you? 
I  did.  What  is  Fishel  anyway?  Fishel  is  still  alive 
and  deals  in  coal  and  eats  bread  and  butter  and 
contributes  money  to  our  self-defence.    But  I  saw  an 


.What  Never  Happened  43 

old  man.  An  old  man  lay  naked,  his  legs  were  thin 
and  blue  and  hairy,  his  skin  was  all  wrinkled,  and  a 
nail  was  sticking  out  of  his  eye.  .  .  .  How's  that? 
What  will  you  say  to  that?  What?  .  .  .  Has  God  al- 
lowed it?  Your  God?  Was  it  His  will?  And  I  saw  a 
woman.  She  was  young,  her  hair  in  wild  disorder,  and 
her  belly  ripped  up.  .  .  .  Shall  we  kill  ?  ...  Of  course, 
we'll  kill.  ...  I'll  kill  them  joyfully.  ...  Do  you  hear 
me?    Joyfully!" 

"Whom  do  you  mean  by  'them'?" 

"Oh,  what  difference  does  it  make?  The  ojBQcers,  the 
ministers,  the  gendarmes,  the  police  officials." 

"Joyfully?     You?" 

"Yes,  yes,  yes.  ...  I,  David  Colin!  .  .  .  One  must 
take  revenge:  an  eye  for  an  eye  and  a  tooth  for  a 
tooth." 

Seriozha  did  not  answer,  but  went  over  to  the  window 
and  threw  it  open.  The  warm  damp  night  filled  the 
room.  The  rain  was  over  and  the  clouds  were  gone. 
The  Big  Dipper  shone  triumphantly  in  the  sky ;  and  the 
Milky  Way  twinkled  with  its  myriad  stars. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  army-barracks  were  situated  outside  of  the 
city  limits,  on  a  dusty,  badly  paved  road.  Sub- 
dued rumours  of  a  revolt  had  been  circulating 
in  the  regiment  for  the  past  three  months.  People  had 
been  declaring  openly  that  "the  officers  were  stealing," 
that  ' '  all  officers  were  dogs ' '  and  that  ' '  they  ought  to  be 
shot."  This  dissatisfaction,  though  secret,  was  rapidly 
growing.  Its  causes  could  not  be  definitely  pointed  out. 
Military'  service  had  always  been  detested,  but  till  now 
the  soldiers  had  been  reconciled  to  it,  as  their  grand- 
fathers had  been  reconciled  to  whips  and  rods.  Now, 
however,  it  had  become  unbearable.  And  the  awakened 
members  of  the  regiment  were  buzzing  like  bees  in  a 
hive  that  has  been  disturbed.  In  the  evening  active 
"volunteer-soldiers"  would  secretly  enter  the  barracks. 
There  they  delivered  fiery,  though  ill  comprehended, 
speeches  about  "land,"  "Socialism"  and  "armed  re- 
volts." And  it  was  easy  to  believe  that  at  the  first  call 
to  revolt  the  soldiers  would  raise  their  guns  and  kill 
the  officers  and  unfurl  the  red  flag  of  revolution  in 
place  of  the  gold-trimmed  regimental  colours.  But  no 
one  knew  when  this  would  take  place.  The  officers  were 
aware  of  the  disturbance  among  the  soldiers  and  they 
were  afraid  of  it.  They  were  afraid  when  they  found 
a  proclamation  warning  them  of  death,  or  when  a  self- 
constituted  spy  informed  them  of  the  seductive  prop- 
aganda.   And   the   ubiquitous    and   mysterious   enemy, 

44 


What  Never  Happened  45 

the  Party,  rose  in  their  esteem,  and  their  hatred  of  it, 
their  powerless  fury,  increased.  It  happened  that  an 
officer  struck  a  soldier  in  the  face.  Though  it  had  been 
a  customary  thing,  this  time  the  event  raised  a  storm 
of  violent  protests  and  prophecies  of  revolt.  The  com- 
mittee decided  that  the  time  was  ripe  and  set  the  day. 

When  David  and  Seriozha  left  the  house  in  the  morn- 
ing the  sun  was  high  in  the  heavens.  The  leaves,  wet 
with  the  night's  rain,  were  whispering  to  each  other. 
The  rays  of  the  morning  sun  touched  the  pools  that  the 
rain  had  left  and  turned  them  to  silver.  It  promised 
to  be  a  hot  cloudless  day. 

David  felt  uncomfortable  in  the  uniform  of  an  offi- 
cer. He  was  particularly  annoyed  at  the  constant 
knocking  of  the  sword  against  his  high  boots,  and  he 
had  to  hold  it  up  with  his  left  hand.  He  was  self-con- 
scious; it  seemed  to  him  that  passers-by,  the  peasants 
and  the  women  going  to  market,  guessed  that  he  was 
not  an  officer,  but  a  Jew  in  disguise,  and  at  any  moment 
a  policeman  might  stop  and  arrest  him.  Seriozha  on 
the  contrary  walked  with  a  swift,  confident  step. 

David  felt  as  if  the  sleepy  streets  and  fences  would 
never  come  to  an  end.  At  last,  however,  they  saw  the 
oppressive-looking  brick  building  in  the  distance. 
There  was  a  sentinel  on  duty  at  the  gate.  *'Now,  we'll 
surely  be  halted,"  David  thought,  "he  surely  won't  let 
us  pass."  And  again  he  felt  as  if  a  heavy  load  were 
weighing  down  his  shoulders.  But  the  sentinel,  a  tall 
soldier  with  a  round  kindly  peasant  face,  raised  his  gun 
and  stood  at  attention.  The  sun  could  not  be  seen  from 
the  paved  four-cornered  yard.  Here  and  there  a  blade 
of  grass  thrust  itself  up  between  the  stones.  To  their 
left  in  the  furthest  corner  of  the  yard  wash  was  drying 


46  What  Never  Happened 

on  lines.  From  the  old  walls  of  the  building  the  dirty 
windows  looked  down  upon  them.  The  steady  buzz  of 
voices  filled  the  yard.  A  private  without  a  hat,  in 
patched  trousers,  with  a  pail  in  his  hands,  ran  across  the 
yard.  The  sporty  office-clerk  saluted  them  and  disap- 
peared behind  a  door,  on  which  "Office"  was  written. 
Seriozha  made  his  way  confidently  to  the  soldiers'  quar- 
ters. "Is  it  possible  that  they'll  let  us  enter?"  David 
tliought.  "Oh,  what's  the  difference.  ...  I  only  wish 
it  would  be  over.  ..."  Even  at  the  entrance  to  the  sol- 
diers'  quarters  they  were  not  stopped  by  the  sentinel. 

The  long  narrow  room  was  crowded  with  soldiers. 
Their  guns  were  standing  peacefully  near  the  walls  in 
gun-racks.  The  sun  glittered  on  the  smooth  barrels. 
The  crowded  place  smelled  of  food  and  tobacco.  David 
was  suddenly  gripped  by  terror.  It  seemed  impossible 
to  escape  from  the  place.  At  salute,  his  stout  body 
swaying  as  he  walked,  a  sergeant-major  was  approach- 
ing to  meet  them.  "Here  comes  the  end,"  David 
thought.  When  Seriozha  noticed  the  sergeant,  he 
frowned,  but  made  a  resolute  step  forward.  He  looked 
straight  into  the  sergeant-major's  eyes  and  without  giv- 
ing him  a  chance  to  say  anything,  asked  in  an  abrupt, 
gruff  manner : 

"Where  is  your  revolver?" 

"My  God,  what  is  he  doing?"  David  thought.  "Now 
it's  surely  all  over,  everything  is  lost.  .  .  .  He  won't 
give  up  his  revolver.  .  .  .  And  why  are  the  soldiers 
standing  like  statues?"  But  though  he  was  certain  that 
all  was  lost  and  that  they  could  escape  only  by  a  mir- 
acle, he  felt  the  contagion  of  Seriozha 's  daring  and  re- 
peated after  him. 

"Where  is  your  revolver?" 


Wliat  Never  Happened  47 

The  sergeant  evidently  did  not  understand  the  ques- 
tion. Standing  at  attention  by  sheer  force  of  habit  he 
regarded  the  stranger  officers  with  a  perplexed  gaze. 
Silence  reigned  in  the  room.     It  was  as  quiet  as  a  field. 

' '  I  ask  you,  where  is  your  revolver  ? ' '  Seriozha  raised 
his  voice. 

"Your.  .  .  ." 

'^  Silence!" 

Seriozha  stretched  his  arm  and  began  to  unbutton  the 
string  of  the  revolver-bag  on  the  sergeant's  breast.  He 
did  it  slowly  and  in  cold  blood.  The  string  was  caught 
in  the  sergeant's  epaulets,  and  he  lowered  his  head 
obediently  and  took  off  the  revolver-bag. 

''And  now  lead  the  company  out  into  the  yard." 

"Your.  .  .  .  Honour.  ..." 

"Silence!  ..."  Seriozha  ordered,  turning  red  in 
the  face.  David  saw  a  small  black  revolver  glitter  in 
his  hand. 

The  soldiers,  without  waiting  for  the  command,  picked 
up  their  guns,  put  on  their  knapsacks  and  with  their  eyes 
on  the  ground  filed  out  into  the  yard.  Seriozha  was 
standing  at  the  door  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and 
his  feet  wide  apart  and,  still  frowning,  let  them  pass 
by.  When  the  company  was  in  formation  near  the  wall, 
he  slowly  advanced.  The  sun  played  on  the  pavement 
and  on  the  bayonets.  It  seemed  to  David  that  many 
years  had  passed  since  that  unhappy  moment  when  he 
had  entered  the  barracks  yard.  He  wished  he  could 
turn  back.  He  wished  he  could  run — run  from  this 
trap,  from  these  stone  walls  and  steel  bayonets,  from 
the  inescapable  terror  which,  he  felt  with  absolute  cer- 
tainty, was  about  to  strike  them.  But  he  knew  it  was 
impossible  to  run. 


48  What  Never  Happened 

"Order!"  Seriozha  gave  the  command. 

The  company  became  silent  and  motionless,  as  if  the 
command  had  not  been  given  by  Seriozha,  but  by  a 
stern,  cruel  officer.  Two  rows  of  white  shirts  stretched 
in  an  even  line  along  the  brick  wall.  Every  soldier  had 
his  gun  raised  at  the  same  angle  and  had  his  cap  pulled 
down  over  his  forehead,  his  head  raised,  and  the  same 
pallor  on  every  strained  face.  At  the  extreme  right  of 
the  company,  not  far  from  David,  stood  the  black- 
bearded  sergeant-major,  his  forlorn  eyes  blinking  un- 
ceasingly. 

''Comrades!  ..." 

"Will  they  really  let  him  speak?"  David  wondered. 
"Will  they  really  listen  to  him?"  It  all  seemed  like 
a  dream — tlie  barracks,  the  soldiers,  Seriozha.  And 
should  he  but  waken,  he  would  find  himself  in  his  little 
cosy  student's  room  with  everything  going  on  as  usual. 

"Comrades!  .  .  ."  Seriozha  repeated  somewhat 
louder. 

But  suddenly  they  heard  the  sound  of  heavy  steps. 
David  looked  around;  he  saw  people  slowly  advancing 
past  the  wash-lines,  from  the  direction  of  the  office,  to- 
wards them.  Seriozha  immediately  reached  for  his  re- 
volver. The  company  fixed  their  stony  glances  on  him. 
The  row  of  white  shirts  remained  unchanged.  The  caps 
were  still  lowered  over  their  foreheads.  The  black- 
bearded  sergeant-major  kept  his  erect  pose.  The  golden 
epaulets  of  the  advancing  men  sparkled  in  the  sunlight. 

Seriozha  turned  red  in  the  face  just  as  he  had  before 
in  the  soldiers'  room.  He  did  not  yet  know  why,  but  he 
felt  that  the  revolt  would  not  succeed.  And  disregard- 
ing the  soldiers  he  turned  around  and  directed  his  steady 
steps  towards  the  advancing  officers.    They  were  very 


What  Never  Happened  49 

near  now  and  David  could  see  every  one  of  them  clearly. 
At  one  end  a  stout  bloated  lieutenant  with  eye-glasses 
was  moving  his  stout  legs  rapidly.  Next  to  him  a  tall 
officer  in  a  worn  uniform  and  unshined  boots  was  walk- 
ing proudly.  The  others  appeared  to  David  as  one 
living  mass.  He  could  only  see  that  there  were  many 
of  them,  about  ten.  And  with  the  realization  that 
they  were  many  and  that  it  was  useless  to  resist  them, 
came  that  joy  again  which  he  had  felt  the  evening  be- 
fore. *'I  shall  die.  .  .  .  For  land  and  freedom!"  he 
thought,  following  Seriozha  and  feeling  happy  for  no 
reason.  "Here  it  is  .  .  .  Here!"  But  he  did  not 
dare  to  look  b  k.  He  did  not  dare  to  take  a  look  to 
see  what  the  company  was  doing,  what  the  black- 
bearded  sergeant  was  doing.  "Only  they  must  not 
shoot  us  from  the  back.  .  .  .  Not  from  the  back.  .  .  . 
Let  them  be  honest  .  .  .  for  the  revolution.  .  .  .  Beau- 
tiful are  thy  dwellings,  Oh  Israel  ..." 

There  was  a  noise  behind  them.  David  winced  and 
closed  his  eyes.  When  he  opened  them  again  he  saw 
Corporal  Georgy  Gabayev,  his  comrade  and  adherent, 
leave  the  ranks  ^nd  run  up  to  him  and  his  companions. 
When  he  joined  them,  he  was  flushed,  his  black  eyes 
were  burning  and  he  was  breathing  heavily.  They  were 
in  the  centre  of  the  yard.  They  could  hear  the  stout 
lieutenant  say  something.  But  they  continued  their 
rapid  walk  to  the  gate,  which  was  still  far  off  and  seemed 
almost  beyond  their  reach.  It  was  hard  to  walk.  It 
seemed  to  David  that  he  had  heavy  weights  on  his  feet 
instead  of  boots. 

"Shoot!"    The  command  reached  them  indistinctly. 

David  did  not  hear  the  shots,  but  the  bullets  buzzed 
over  his  head.    A  blue  cloud  arose  from  among  the  of- 


50  What  Never  Happened 

ficers  and  vanished  away  in  the  air.    Now  he  became 
conscious  that  they  were  shooting  at  them. 

Seriozha  stopped.  An  unexpected  shot  whizzed  past 
David's  ear.  Gabayev  was  shooting  with  his  gun.  Then 
without  knowing  what  he  was  doing,  David  raised  his 
revolver  and  began  to  aim.  The  trigger  was  stiff  and 
the  revolver  was  shaking  in  his  hand.  But  when  finally 
he  had  taken  aim  at  somebody's  chest,  he  half  closed 
his  eyes  and  pulled  the  trigger.  This  once  done  he  could 
not  stop  any  more.  He  fired  without  aiming,  not  even 
knowing  why  he  did  it  until  he  ran  out  of  bullets.  Then 
he  saw  the  yellow  fire  from  under  his  eye-lashes.  The 
air  smelled  of  gunpowder.  The  stout  lieutenant  was 
down  on  the  ground,  resting  his  right  hand  on  the  stones. 
His  hat  had  fallen  off  his  head  and  at  his  feet  a  pool  of 
thick  sticky  blood  was  forming.  David  did  not  grasp 
that  he  had  killed  a  human  being. 

Seriozha  went  on  without  looking  back  or  shooting. 
Gabayev  kept  pace  with  him  with  his  head  down.  David 
ran  to  join  them.  At  the  gate  the  sentinel  blocked  their 
way.  The  same  tall  soldier,  who  a  little  while  ago  had 
saluted  them,  now  threatened  them  with  menacing 
and  furious  countenance.  Gabayev  made  a  wide 
motion  with  his  hand  and  before  David  could  grasp  the 
situation  the  sentinel  swayed,  tried  to  grasp  the  tri- 
eoloured  sentry-box,  but  fell  face  downward  into  the 
soft  dust.  David  felt  and  understood  nothing;  he  only 
knew  that  something  terrible  and  irreparable  had  hap- 
pened; and  he  was  only  anxious  not  to  remain  behind. 
There  was  no  committee,  no  uprising,  no  revolution. 
There  was  only  a  soft  ploughed  field,  in  which  their  feet 
were  sticking  and  which  they  had  to  cross.  Beyond 
were  the  woods.    In  the  woods,  he  believed,  was  safety. 


CHAPTER  VII 

AS  Misha  Bolotov,  a  red-cheeked  eighteen-year-old 
gynmasiast,  who  had  just  finished  his  disgust- 
ing examinations,  passed  the  station  next  to 
Miatlevo  early  one  morning,  he  was  seized  with  a  joyful 
impatience.  He  put  his  close-cropped  head  out  of  the 
car  window  and  half  closing  his  eyes  to  the  sunlight 
looked  out  lovingly  at  the  old  familiar  landmarks.  Be- 
yond the  Mozharovsky  woods  sparkled  the  gilded  cross  of 
the  Holy  Trinity  Church.  Beyond  the  marshes  he  could 
see  the  dark-green  road  to  Orel.  He  caught  a  glimpse  of 
the  village  Chishmy.  And  at  last  came  the  little  God- 
forsaken village  Miatlevo.  A  red  tin-roofed  station- 
building,  an  iron  water-tower,  a  long-haired  telegrapher 
and  the  country  hotel  of  the  merchant  Blokhin. 

A  carriage  with  three  horses  with  bells  on  was  waiting 
for  him.  Driver  Tikhon,  a  red,  bearded  peasant  in  a 
sleeveless  shirt  and  a  low  hat  with  a  peacock's  feather, 
was  slowly  fixing  up  the  harness.  He  met  Misha  with  a 
smile.  To  Misha  it  seemed  that  it  was  not  Tikhon  smil- 
ing, but  the  hot  sun,  the  fields  of  oats  and  the  white, 
tender  birch-trees.  The  stone  city  was  no  more.  School 
days  were  over. 

''Chaly  is  leading  and  where  is  Zviezdochka  (Little 
Star)  ?"  Misha  asked  in  disappointment,  going  up  to  the 
horses.  Chaly,  a  heavily  built  strong  horse,  was  bend- 
ing his  sweating  neck  so  that  his  big  silver  bell  tinkled. 
Golubka,  the  bay  mare  on  his  left,  her  head  raised,  was 

51 


52  What  Never  Happened 

smelling  the  air,  her  rosy  sensitive  nostrils  wide  open. 
Misha  embraced  her  and  laid  his  cheek  against  her  warm 
nose.  He  kissed  her,  inhaling  the  familiar  acrid  odour 
of  the  mare's  body,  and  whispered  caressing  words  in 
her  ear. 

"How  are  you,  little  one?  Glad  to  see  you,  Golubka, 
And  where  is  Zviezdochka?"    He  turned  to  Tikhon. 

*  *  Zviezdochka  ? "  Tikhon  repeated  in  a  sing-song  voice. 
"Zviezdochka  is  lame.  We  use  Zolotoy  in  her  place. 
But  he  is  not  a  horse,  Mikhail  Nikolayevich,  he's  a 
rascal. ' ' 

Kascal  Zolotoy,  foaming  head  bent  down,  was  pawing 
the  ground.  Misha  looked  at  him  sadly.  Last  summer 
he  had  trained  Zolotoy  for  riding,  and  he  felt  sorry  to 
see  him  in  harness.  He  sighed  and  stroked  his  shaggy 
golden  mane.     Tikhon  guessed  his  thoughts. 

"The  stallion  Zviezdochka  of  last  year  is  now  a  fine 
horse.    He'd  be  fine  for  riding,  Mikhail  Nikolayevich." 

They  passed  Vypolzovo,  Chemodanovo,  Sukholom. 
All  around  them,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  stretched 
an  ocean  of  yellow  unripe  corn.  Misha  could  see  Tik- 
hon 's  back,  the  broad  body  of  Chaly,  the  dusty  road  and 
the  blue  sky.  It  was  a  hot  day.  Only  a  few  tiny  clouds 
were  scattered  in  the  sky.  The  air  smelled  of  grass  and 
fields.     Chaly  snorted.     The  horses'  bells  tinkled. 

They  passed  the  Mozharovsky  woods  and  entered  on 
the  Orel  road.  Chaly  tossed  his  mane  and  immediately 
began  to  run  faster.  His  big  ears  kept  swinging  in  time 
under  the  harness-arch.  The  other  two  horses  stretched 
their  bodies  and  their  bells  too  were  set  swinging.  Go- 
lubka  ran  with  short  strong  steps  and  Zolotoy  tried  to 
keep  up  with  her.  Mile-posts  and  telegraph-posts 
passed    in    rapid    succession.    "Tak,    tak,    tak  ..." 


What  Never  Happened  53 

Misha  thought  rhythmically,  looking  at  Chaly  and  almost 
dying  in  impatient  expectation.  "Faster,  dear  one ..." 
But  Tikhon  pulled  up  the  lines  and  Chaly  reduced  his 
speed.  The  Bolotov  estate  appeared  in  the  distance:  a 
red  roof  and  a  green  garden. 

Nikolay  Stepanovich  Bolotov,  an  old  retired  general, 
was  standing  on  the  high  whitewashed  steps  and  was 
looking  out  through  the  avenue  of  linden-trees  with  one 
hand  shading  his  eyes  from  the  sun.  The  carriage 
passed  through  the  gate  with  its  stone  lions,  and  the 
sun's  rays  began  to  fall  through  the  leaves  and  played 
on  the  horses'  backs  and  Tikhon 's  shoulders.  Misha 
could  not  wait  any  longer  and  jumped  from  the  car- 
riage and  ran  up  to  his  father.  He  hardly  had  time  to 
greet  him,  when  a  pair  of  arms  embraced  him,  and  his 
sister  Natasha  kissed  him  heartily.  He  heard  light  steps 
in  the  hall  and  felt  his  mother  was  coming  out. 

After  a  long-drawn-out  festive  dinner  Misha  went  out 
into  the  garden.  He  was  home  again  after  a  long  ab- 
sence. He  had  to  see  everything,  greet  every  tree,  every 
stone,  every  shady  lawn.  In  the  garden  and  in  the  yard 
everything  was  as  of  old.  The  round  dog  Sharik  with 
his  shaggy  tail  and  chocolate-coloured  hair  ran  up  to 
Misha  and  smelled  his  boots.  On  seeing  Misha  the  red 
hunting-dog  Vesta  whined  and  licked  him  on  his  lips. 
The  same  housemaids,  Lukerya  and  Dasha,  greeted  him 
with  lowered  eyes.  The  same  housekeeper,  Malanya 
Petrovna,  in  her  usual  blue  skirt,  passed  to  the  cellar  for 
currant-water.  And  as  of  old  the  garden  paths  were 
overgrown  with  burdock,  wild  hemp  and  nettles ;  and  the 
lilacs  were  abloom ;  and  the  green  gooseberries  were  just 
as  delicious  as  ever.  And  the  horses  were  chewing  their 
oats  peacefully  in  the  stalls. 


54  What  Never  Happened 

At  one  end  the  garden  went  out  upon  the  woods,  and 
the  woods  were  still  there  smelling  of  fallen  trees  and 
resin,  Misha  sat  down  near  a  shady  stream.  Natasha, 
breaking  the  long  stems  of  ferns,  moved  up  to  her 
brother  and  said  timidly  looking  into  his  happy  face: 

"We  thought  Sasha  had  been  killed.  We  had 
had  no  letters  from  him.  Papa  was  crying  all  the 
time." 

"And  Mamma?"  Misha  asked  with  quick  concern. 

"Mamma,  you  know,  keeps  quiet." 

"And  now?" 

"Now  we  have  a  letter.  He  writes  he  was  taken  pris- 
oner. Thank  God!"  Natasha  crossed  herself.  "Why 
do  people  make  wars  ? ' ' 

Misha  knew  of  the  Tsu  Shima  battle.  But  he  never 
thought  of  his  brother,  of  the  fact  that  he  might  have 
been  killed.  Natasha's  words  made  no  impression  on 
him.  It  made  no  difference  to  him  whether  his  brother 
was  a  prisoner  or  not.  Under  the  influence  of  comrades, 
pamphlets,  newspapers  and  discussions  Misha  gradually 
had  come  to  look  upon  all  Russian  adversities  with  that 
common  indifference,  which  at  that  time  was  considered 
proper  and  deserving.  "That's  just  what  they  de- 
serve," he  thought,  though  he  could  not  say  who  "they" 
were  and  why  "they"  deserved  to  drown,  or  die,  or  to 
be  captured  by  the  Japanese.  Without  answering  Na- 
tasha's question,  he  asked: 

"And  why  is  mamma  in  black?" 

"Mamma  is  always  in  black  now.  Do  you  know  any- 
thing about  Andriusha?" 

"No,  not  a  thing." 

"Why  doesn't  he  write?" 

"I  don't  know." 


Wliat  Never  Happened  55 

Natasha  was  lost  in  thought.  A  woodpecker  was  at 
his  work  in  the  thick  of  the  woods. 

"Listen,  Misha,  tell  me  ...  I  have  long  wanted  to 
ask  you  .  .  .  Misha,  tell  me,  what's  Andriusha  doing 
there?  .  .  .  Where  is  he?  I  know  he's  badly  off  .  .  . 
He's  very  badly  off  .  .  .  Misha,  is  it  true  that  he  is  a 
Socialist?" 

Misha  nodded  silently. 

Natasha  was  seventeen  years  old.  She  had  blue  eyes, 
flaxen  hair,  and  long  slender  hands.  She  studied  at 
home  in  winter  in  Moscow  and  in  summer  in  their  Bo- 
lotov  estate.  About  the  Party  she  only  knew  by  hear- 
say. But  she  was  accustomed  to  think  of  the  revolu- 
tionists as  remarkable,  self-sacrificing  people.  The 
Party  seemed  like  a  mysterious  monastery  with  a  strict 
monastic  life.  She  was  only  troubled  by  the  fact  that 
revolutionists  kill  people,  throw  bombs  and  fight  at  bar- 
ricades. And  it  oppressed  her  now  to  think  that  And- 
riusha, who  was  almost  a  stranger  to  her,  Andriusha, 
whose  portrait  was  on  her  table,  a  tall,  strong,  unknown 
man,  her  brother,  that  he  too  was  a  revolutionist  and, 
consequently,  a  martyr  and  a  murderer.  It  became 
clear  to  her  why  he  did  not  write.  She  recalled  the 
words  of  her  favourite  evangelist  Luke:  "If  any  man 
come  to  me,  and  hate  not  his  father,  and  mother,  and 
wife,  and  children,  and  brethren,  and  sisters,  yea,  and 
his  own  life  also,  he  cannot  be  my  disciple. ' ' 

Misha  was  not  oppressed,  he  was  overjoyed  by  the  fact 
that  his  brother  was  a  member  of  the  Party  and  a  revo- 
lutionist. He  knew  very  little  about  the  Party,  not 
much  more  than  his  sister.  He  had  secretly  read  a  few 
forbidden  books  in  the  gymnasium.  According  to  these 
books  the  life  of  revolutionists  seemed  a  life  of  heroic 


56  What  Never  Happened 

deeds  and  earnest  sacrifice.  He  hardly  understood  the 
aims  of  the  Socialists,  but  he  had  faith  that,  whatever 
their  aim  was,  it  must  be  just  and  good.  He  often  heard 
that  the  Socialists  were  the  only  honest  people  and  that 
every  self-respecting  human  being  in  Russia  must  be  a 
revolutionist.  And  though  he  knew  neither  Party,  nor 
Socialism,  nor  the  revolution,  though  he  had  no  idea  of 
terror  and  did  not  even  think  of  it,  still  in  a  youthful 
spirit  of  inspiration  he  had  resolved  that  he  must  serve 
the  people.  And  after  he  had  come  to  such  a  resolve, 
the  strange  and  distant  Party  became  near,  beloved. 
And  he  was  sincerely  ready  to  give  his  life  not  only  for 
the  people,  but  for  the  Party,  for  Andriusha  and  for 
the  mysterious  committee. 

"Misha  ..."  Natasha  called  softly. 

*'What?" 

"Misha,  and  you  .  .  .  have  you  thought  about  it?" 
Catching  her  meaning,  Misha  nodded  again. 

"Well,  Misha?" 

Misha  did  not  answer. 

"Misha  .  .  ." 

"What?" 

"Misha,  aren't  you  afraid?" 

"Afraid  of  what?" 

"Afraid  ...  to  kill?" 

Misha  became  excited. 

"Oh,  Natasha,  to  kill  .  .  ."  He  rose  from  the  grass 
and  began  to  talk  excitedly.  "Why  do  you  ask?  .  .  . 
And  they  .  .  .  Don't  they  kill?  .  .  .  Don't  they  hang 
people?  .  .  .  Don't  they  shoot  workingmen  to  death? 
.  .  .  How  about  the  ninth  of  January?  .  .  .  Don't  op- 
pression and  misery  reign  all  about  us?  .  .  .  Natasha, 
I  can't  stand  it  ...  I  can't!" 


What  Never  Happened  57 

"But,  Misha,  to  kill  ..." 

''And  Andriusha?" 

"What  about  Andriusha?" 

"Doesn't  Andriusha  kill?" 

Natasha  was  silent.  She  recalled  the  words  of  the 
same  evangelist  Luke :  * '  Love  your  enemies,  do  good  to 
them  which  hate  you,  bless  them  that  curse  you,  and 
pray  for  them  that  despitef ully  use  you. ' ' 


CHAPTER  VIII 

NIKOLAY  STEPANOVICH  BOLOTOY,  a  re- 
tired general,  was  a  man  of  iron  principles. 
To  him  the  words  "Fatherland,"  "Church," 
* '  Czar, ' '  were  not  merely  so  many  solemn  words,  but  the 
whole  meaning  of  his  life  was  contained  in  them,  just  as 
to  his  son  Andriusha  the  meaning  of  his  whole  life  was 
contained  in  their  opposites  "Republic,"  "Revolution," 
"Socialism."  Like  everybody  else,  Nikolay  Stepano- 
vich  felt  that  something  new  was  astir  in  Russia,  but  he 
could  not  grasp  its  significance.  He  knew  his  Father- 
land was  in  danger.  Every  morning  the  newspapers 
told  of  defeats  in  the  theatre  of  war.  But  he  never  asked 
himself  whether  this  bloody  war  was  not  a  government 
scheme  and  who  was  responsible  for  it.  Russia  was  at 
war  with  Japan  and  Japan  was  winning.  In  the  face 
of  such  an  unparalleled  disgrace,  all  differences  of  opin- 
ion ought  to  have  been  silenced.  When  a  ship  is  sinking 
we  do  not  try  the  guilty  parties,  but  we  make  an  effort 
to  save  the  ship.  When  there  is  a  fire  we  do  not  seek 
the  cause  but  try  to  extinguish  it.  He  thought  the  re- 
sponsibility for  Russia's  misfortune  lay  with  those  who 
held  the  army  up  to  ridicule,  with  those  who  in  their 
madness  had  begun  the  war  and  now  led  the  armies  so 
blunderingly — with  Kuropatkin,  Plehve,  Alekseyev,  the 
commissary,  the  students,  the  Jews,  the  Poles,  the  Finns 
and  in  short  with  all  Russian  citizens.  He  did  not  see 
that    he    was    thus    pronouncing    judgment    upon    his 

58 


What  Never  Happened  59 

Fatherland,  a  judgment  which  was  more  severe  than  the 
one  pronounced  by  the  Japanese  at  Mukden  and  Tsu 
Shima.  Yet,  if  Russia  had  been  winning  and  Japan 
losing,  he  would  have  rejoiced  in  the  war.  It  never  en- 
tered his  mind  that  every  war  is  unjustifiable.  He 
looked  upon  war  with  the  obedient  eyes  of  the  soldier, 
a  law  sanctioned  by  ages,  a  law  about  which  it  was  futile 
and  blasphemous  to  argue.  If  any  one  tried  to  contra- 
dict him,  he  ansv^ered :  ' '  There  is  no  power  that  does 
not  come  from  God, ' '  and  these  words  were  full  of  mean- 
ing to  him.  He  was  proud  of  his  son  Sasha.  Sasha 
was  doing  his  honest  duty  to  the  "Fatherland"  and 
*'Czar." 

The  Fatherland  was  in  danger.  He  knew  it  from  the 
fact  that  daily  the  newspapers  brought  disquieting  re- 
ports about  murders,  executions,  strikes,  agrarian  upris- 
ings, about  secret  party  organization,  about  court-mar- 
tials and  bombs.  He  thought  that  even  if  there  was 
lawlessness  in  Russia,  it  was  due  to  the  fact  that  the 
Czar  knew  nothing  about  it,  and  that  if  the  Czar  should 
find  out  that  it  existed  he  would  soon  put  an  end  to  it  by 
his  God-given  right.  When  his  second  son  Audrey  Bo- 
lotov  was  arrested  for  the  first  time,  he  accepted  it  as  a 
mistake,  as  a  sad  misunderstanding  on  the  part  of  the 
gendarmes,  for  whom  he  had  a  profound  contempt.  He 
went  immediately  to  St.  Petersburg,  intervened  with  the 
minister  and  threatened  the  shameless  secret  service. 
He  could  not  admit  that  his  own  son,  the  clever,  honest 
Andriusha,  could  have  become  a  ' '  criminal, ' '  a  man  who 
was  dangerous  to  the  "Fatherland."  But  when  And- 
riusha without  having  asked  his  father's  consent  left  the 
Technological  Institute  and  disappeared  from  St.  Pet- 
ersburg, he  began  to  suspect  the  bitter  truth.    But  he 


60  What  Never  Happened 

stubbornly  clung  to  the  belief  that  his  son  would  repent, 
and  he  found  solace  in  the  story  of  the  prodigal  son. 
' '  ]\ry  son  was  dead,  and  is  alive  again ;  he  was  lost,  and 
is  found. ' ' 

To  the  wife  of  Nikolay  Stepanovich,  Tatyana  Mikai- 
lovna,  it  made  no  difference  whether  Russia  was  to  be  a 
democratic  republic,  a  constitutional  monarchy  or  an 
autocracy.  Like  her  son  Audrey  she  looked  upon  every 
war  as  upon  a  bloody  crime,  a  crime  before  God  and 
man,  particularly  so  the  Japanese  War,  perhaps,  be- 
cause her  two  first-bom  were  taking  part  in  it  and  were 
risking  their  lives.  Her  womanly  instinct,  the  sharpened 
instinct  of  a  mother,  made  her  feel  that  the  most  essen- 
tial thing  did  not  lie  in  what  men  thought  but  in  what 
they  did.  It  seemed  to  her  that  it  lay  somewhere  else, 
but  she  could  not  very  well  express  it,  and  when  she  tried 
to,  she  simply  spoke  in  a  general  open-hearted  manner, 
saying  that  "one  must  live  according  to  the  teachings 
of  love."  She  did  not  know  herself  what  it  meant.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  both  of  her  sons  lived  according  to 
the  teachings  of  Christ,  though  both  were  killing  people. 
Both  did  their  useful  work.  Both  were  exposed  to 
danger.  She  remembered  them  as  they  had  been  years 
ago  when  they  had  cried  in  her  arms  and  sucked  her 
motherly  breasts;  and  she  humbly  prayed  for  both  that 
their  Lives  might  be  spared. 

When  her  j^oungest  son  Mikhail  came  home,  she  alone 
noticed  the  change  that  had  taken  place  in  him.  His 
voice  had  become  deeper,  his  youthful  face  thinner,  and 
his  blue  eyes  sparkled  with  a  restless  fire.  Though  now 
he  was  near  her  it  seemed  to  her  that  her  love  for  the 
older  children  was  greater;  still  she  unconsciously  sur- 
rounded him  with  unceasing  tenderness  and  hidden  care. 


What  Never  Happened  61 

She  understood  that  he  had  already  come  to  some  de- 
cision of  his  own,  with  his  eighteen-year-old  mind,  and 
his  verdict  would  prove  to  be  a  source  of  new  sorrow  to 
her.  She  knew  that  he,  too,  her  third  aud  last  son,  was 
gradually  becoming  a  man,  and,  consequently,  was  going 
away  to  his  difficult,  manly  work,  which  she  could  not 
understand.  She  could  not  hold  him  back,  and  to  her 
prayer  for  her  older  children  she  added  a  prayer  that 
his  life,  too,  might  be  spared. 

In  the  middle  of  July  a  letter  came  from  Sasha.  All 
assembled  in  the  billiard  room;  it  was  high  and  cool, 
with  tapestries  on  the  walls  and  family  portraits  in 
gilded  frames.  It  overlooked  the  garden,  and  the  leaves 
of  the  old  linden-tree,  which  had  been  planted  by  the 
great-grandfather  of  Nikolay  Stepanovich,  brushed  the 
windows.  Nikolay  Stepanovich,  a  vigorous,  old  man, 
clean  shaven,  with  colour  in  his  full  cheeks,  took  Sasha 's 
letter  out  from  the  side-pocket  of  his  military  coat  and 
unfolded  it  carefully.  He  put  on  his  gold-rimmed 
glasses,  looked  severely  at  his  wife  and  children,  as  if 
to  make  sure  they  were  ready  and  willing  to  listen,  and 
began  to  read  in  a  loud,  solemn  voice.  Sasha  wrote  a 
clear,  short  description  of  the  Tsu  Shima  battle,  with- 
out complaining  of  faultfinding.  His  calm,  precise 
phrases  reminded  Misha  of  their  author,  a  broad-shoul- 
dered young  officer,  quiet  and  cold-eyed.  And  while 
Nikolay  Stepanovich  was  reading,  Misha  had  the  same 
feeling  as  he  had  always  had  in  the  presence  of  his 
brother,  a  mixture  of  love  and  respect  and  fear. 
"When  the  Japanese  officers  boarded  our  ship" — Nik- 
olay Stepanovich 's  voice  trembled — "they  lowered  the 
flag  of  Audrey,  raised  their  own  flag  of  the  rising  sun, 
and  stationed  their  sentry.    Our  commander,  who  was 


62  What  Never  Happened 

exhausted  by  the  sleepless  night  and  the  battle,  attacked 
the  kegs  of  wine.  A  lot  of  the  men  got  drunk.  I  saw 
one  of  our  soldiers  fall  down  intoxicated.  A  Japanese 
sentry  lay  down  his  gun,  went  over  to  him,  wiped  his 
face  and  returned  to  his  post.  ..."  Nikolay  Stepano- 
vich  stopped  and  covered  his  eyes  with  his  white  hand- 
kerchief. 

"Thank  God,  Sasha  isn't  wounded,"  said  Tatyana 
Mikhailovna.  She  listened  to  the  reading  with  her  beau- 
tiful grey  head  slightly  bent,  trying  not  to  miss  the 
slightest  word.  The  one  thing  she  gathered,  and  that 
sunk  into  her  heart,  was  that  Sasha  was  alive  and  out 
of  danger. 

"What  have  they  done?"  Nikolay  Stepanovich  kept 
on  repeating  in  a  voice  tremulous  with  emotion.  Misha, 
who  had  been  silent  all  this  time,  flushed  a  deep  crimson. 

"Who,  papa?" 

"Who?"  demanded  Nikolay  Stepanovich  angrily, 
shaking  the  cherrywood  cigarette  holder. 

"All  are  guilty  .  .  .  and  those  too  .  .  .  those  long- 
haired ones.  They  don't  study,  take  up  politics,  start 
a  revolution,  and  give  them  a  constitution  ...  as  if 
they  were  Germans,  God  forbid  .  .  .  and  the  Father- 
land is  perishing  .  .  .  They  have  lowered  the  flag  of 
Audrey  and  raised  the  Japanese  flag  .  .  .  and  we  are 
glad  .  .  .  that's  the  way  .  .  .  They  don't  understand 
it's  a  dishonour.  Shame!  .  .  .  shame,"  he  shouted  as  if 
everybody  were  contradicting  him.  Then  he  continued, 
"They  say  that  court-martials  are  cruel  .  .  .  Indeed, 
cruel  ?  Here  we  are  at  war,  blood  is  being  spilled,  here 
are  bombs,  strikes  and  robberies  of  the  landowners.  The 
papers  say  the  peasants  of  the  Saratov  province  are 


What  Never  Happened  63 

burning  the  manor-houses  .  .  .  and  they  are  to  be  par- 
doned? No,  they  ought  to  be  hanged  .  .  .  Hanged!" 
He  beat  his  cigarette  holder  on  the  arm  of  the  chair. 

Natasha,  long  since  become  accustomed  to  her  father's 
furious  outbursts,  did  not  attempt  to  answer  him.  She 
was  sorry  for  him.  Those  were  not  his  own  ideals,  she 
felt,  and  his  threats  were  not  very  terrifying.  But  to 
Misha  the  words  of  Nikolay  Stepanovieh  sounded  like  an 
undeserved  insult.  It  was  his  duty  to  prove  his  father 
wrong  and  explain  that  Andriusha  and  the  revolution- 
ists were  not  those  "long-haired"  ones  but  those  Minins 
and  Pozharskys  who  were  destined  to  save  Russia  from 
disgrace  and  dissolution.  Glancing  at  Natasha,  he  said 
in  a  voice  bursting  with  excitement,  "The  ones  you're 
speaking  of,  they're  not  the  only  ones  who  ought  to  be 
hanged,  papa." 

Nikolay  Stepanovieh  grew  pale.  "Here,  here's  how 
you  have  raised  them ! ' '  He  turned  to  Tatyana  Mikhai- 
lovna  breathless  with  anger.  "A  stripling  has  the 
audacity  to  argue !  .  .  .  and  with  whom  ?  With  me ! 
.  .  .  with  his  father  .  .  .  He  has  the  audacity  to  argue ! 
.  .  .  Take  care,  Mikhail,  you  too  .  .  .  Take  care!  .  .  . 
and  you,  too.  .  .  .  Mikhail,  you  too.  .  .  .!  Take  care." 
He  shook  his  finger  at  him.  "I  shall  not  allow  it!  I 
shall  not !  .  .  .  I  have  had  enough  disgrace  brought  upon 
me.  .  .  .  Follow  the  example  of  Aleksandr,  not  of  the 
others."  He  alluded  again  to  the  son  the  thought  of 
whom  haunted  him  painfully.  "They  have  no  respect 
for  their  parents,  no  love  for  their  Fatherland,  no  rever- 
ence for  the  Czar,  no  fear  of  God.  .  .  .  Scoundrels ! "  he 
shouted  hoarsely  and  left  the  room  slamming  the  door 
behind  him. 


64  What  Never  Happened 

*'No,  say  what  you  will,  I  can't  understand,"  Misha 
began  excitedly,  trying  not  to  look  at  his  mother. 
"Heroes  are  giving  up  their  lives  for  the  people,  for 
the  happiness  of  all,  and  they  say  they  ought  to  be 
hanged.  .  .  .  The  most  abominable  outrages  are  taking 
place,  and  everybody  stands  for  them  .  .  .  but  when 
more  people  want  to  fight  against  them  .  .  .  they  ought 
to  be  hanged?  .  .  .  What  does  it  mean?" 

Tatyana  Mikhailovna  looked  at  her  son  sorrowfully. 
He  was  very  handsome  in  his  anger.  Tall  and  blue- 
eyed,  like  all  her  children,  face  flushed,  he  paced  the 
room  with  rapid  strides.    She  sighed. 

Misha  turned  to  her.  She  was  still  sitting  on  the 
couch,  her  head  slightly  bent  and  fingering  her  black, 
woollen  shawl.  Misha  suddenly  felt  ashamed,  and  was 
impelled  to  explain  that  he  couldn't  stand  it  any  longer, 
that  he  loved  the  Party,  believed  in  Andriusha  and 
wanted  to  serve  the  people  and  the  revolution.  But  an 
indefinable  feeling  held  him  back.  His  mother's  bent 
head,  sorrowful  eyes  and  mournful  silence  were  eloquent 
of  the  fact  that  she  understood  him,  and  words  would  be 
futile.  He  walked  slowly  to  the  window  and  looked  into 
the  garden.  The  linden-trees  were  rustling.  Gardener 
Kuzima  was  watering  the  beds  of  geraniums,  petunias, 
mignonette  and  gilliflowers — the  beloved  flower-beds  of 
Nikolay  Stepanovich — with  a  long-necked  green  water- 
ing can.  The  room  was  quiet  now.  Tatyana  Mikhail- 
ovna broke  the  awesome  silence  and  said:  *'Have  you 
thought  about  us,  Misha  ? ' ' 

Misha  made  no  reply,  at  a  loss  what  to  say.  To  hide 
his  tears,  to  his  mind  a  sign  of  weakness,  he  covered  his 
face  with  his  hands  and  ran  out  into  the  garden,  down 


What  Never  Happened  65 

to  the  river.  As  he  made  his  way  through  the  damp 
grass  by  the  shore,  the  smell  of  reeds  and  water  came  to 
him.  Directly  above  drifted  creamy  clouds  of  various 
shapes.  Their  trackless  drifting  made  him  feel  still 
sadder  and  more  restless. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  summer  of  1905  passed  with  its  assassina- 
tions, strikes,  demonstrations  and  that  ominous 
foreboding — the  daring  revolt  on  the  battle- 
ship Prince  Potiomkin  of  Taurus.  The  autumn  came 
and  with  it  the  general  strike. 

Although  Arseny  Ivanovich  and  Bolotov,  and  Vanya, 
and  Seriozha  and  David  and  all  the  numerous  comrades 
ivho  had  been  daily  expecting  the  revolution,  had  be- 
lieved in  its  irresistible  nearness  and  had  faith  in  a 
regenerating  victory,  they  did  not  understand  that  their 
work  was  being  brought  to  a  finish  and  that  the  revolu- 
tion was  now  under  way.  Only  yesterday  they  had  been 
busily  engaged  in  their  secret  Party  work.  They  had 
been  busy  on  the  committees,  preparing  books,  organiz- 
ing peasants,  workingmen  and  soldiers,  writing  procla- 
mations, and  delivering  fiery  speeches.  In  a  word,  only 
yesterday  the  solidly  built  machine  had  been  humming 
and  nobody  could  have  guessed  that  the  revolution  was 
so  close  at  hand.  But  not  only  the  revolutionists 
were  taken  by  surprise,  but  even  the  gendarmes,  the 
spies,  the  officials,  the  ministers  and  all  who  feared  it 
and  felt  its  inevitable  approach.  They  could  not  believe 
that  these  unprecedented  events  which  were  taking  place 
before  their  very  eyes  made  up  the  dreadful  revolution 
they  had  tried  in  vain  to  forestall.  Finally  it  came, 
that  long  expected  tomorrow.  Like  a  bolt  of  lightning, 
the  great  general  strike  burst  down  upon  them.  A 
fantastic  dream  came  true. 

6G 


What  Never  Happened  67 

How  it  came  about  no  one  knew  and  no  one  could  ex- 
plain. Just  which  of  the  Government's  orders  filled 
the  bitter  cup  to  overflowing? 

Just  which  revolutionist  set  the  example  of  supreme 
daring?  Whose  innocent  blood  warmed  the  northern 
pole?  Thus  the  Neva,  the  great,  full-watered  river, 
sleeps  in  its  stone  cradle,  till  a  vivifying  April  ray  de- 
scends from  the  bastion  of  St.  Peter  and  Paul.  The 
snow  now  sparkles  like  diamonds,  but  the  streams  have 
not  yet  begun  to  run  and  the  ice  remains  immovable.  A 
second  ray  follows  the  first.  Above  the  fortress  the  St. 
Petersburg  sun  begins  to  shine — pale,  feeble,  yet  all- 
powerful.  And  unseen,  secretly,  down  on  the  frozen 
depths  of  the  Neva  washing  the  Alekseyev  ravelin,  gur- 
gling streams  begin  to  chatter.  The  murmuring  waters 
join  them.  At  last  with  a  mighty  crash  the  Neva  breaks 
through,  and  the  clanging,  brittle  ice  carries  all  before 
it. 

When  the  Manifesto  of  the  17th  October  was  pub- 
lished, Bolotov  did  not  immediately  grasp  its  meaning. 
He  carefully  read  through  the  prophetic  pages  about  the 
convening  of  the  Imperial  Duma,  about  freedom  of  the 
press,  freedom  of  conscience,  of  unions  and  meetings; 
but  he  could  not  assimilate  the  words.  It  was  not  until 
he  encountered  a  boy  on  the  Nevsky  selling  caricatures 
of  Witte  and  bought  one  of  them  and  read  the  cyni- 
cally humorous  legend  ridiculing  the  all-powerful  min- 
ister, that  he  really  understood  that  a  change  had  taken 
place  in  Russia,  and  whatever  the  new  order  might  prove 
to  be,  the  old  one,  outworn  and  discarded,  would  never 
return.  For  the  first  time  he  experienced  a  joyful 
sense  of  deliverance.  All  the  puzzling  problems  van- 
ished, all  those  problems  which  had  oppressed  him  of 


68  What  Never  Happened 

late.  He  could  now  forget  about  terror,  about  Vanya, 
about  death,  about  his  right  to  live.  Everything  was 
clear.  It  seemed  that  the  most  important  goal  unques- 
tionably the  most  important  one,  had  been  reached.  The 
road  to  the  promised  land  was  open — the  road  to  the 
just  and  free  ordering  of  Russia.  But  the  feeling  was 
not  unalloyed.  It  was  poisoned  by  doubt!  How  to 
adapt  himself  to  the  new  life,  how  to  live  not  under- 
ground, without  the  committee,  without  conspiracy 
work,  how  to  shake  off  the  Party  habits,  how  arrange,  not 
the  world,  but  his  own  ant-like  life?  And  for  the  first 
time  asking  himself  what  he  knew  and  what  he  could  do, 
Bolotov  was  surprised  to  have  to  admit  that,  except  for 
his  revolutionaiy  experience,  he  was  without  position, 
and  that  except  for  adapting  himself  to  the  life  of  a  con- 
spirator, he  had  acquired  nothing  from  the  Party.  The 
life  of  privation  of  the  millions  of  the  people  was  to  him 
unknown,  unintelligible  and  out  of  reach.  He  fairly 
regretted  that  everything  was  over  so  soon,  the  revolu- 
tion won,  and  he,  like  a  discharged  day-labourer,  left 
homeless  and  forsaken.  With  bitterness  he  recalled  the 
ingenious  words  of  Arseny  Ivanovich:  *'The  devil  was 
proud  and  he  fell  from  Heaven.  Pharaoh  was  proud 
and  he  was  drowned  in  the  ocean,  we  are  proud  and  we 
are  good-for-nothing."  The  other  feeling  that  Bolotov 
was  experiencing  and  that  called  forth  both  hope  and 
wrath,  was  a  deep-rooted  distrust  of  the  Manifesto  with 
its  proclamation  of  liberties.  He  saw  the  face  of  Vera 
Andreyevna,  erstwhile  exhausted,  but  now  peaceful; 
the  self-complacent  smile  on  Doctor  Berg's  face,  as  if  he 
were  the  one  who  had  led  the  strike ;  he  heard  the  hoarse 
voice  of  Arseny  Ivanovich:  "Now,  benefactor,  it's  all 
done  for.    You  can't  turn  it  out  with  a  lever,  you 


What  Never  Happened  69 

can 't  grind  it  with  a  stone. ' '  He  saw  and  heard  all  this 
and  still  could  not  throw  off  the  bitter  feeling  of  doubt 
imbued  in  him  through  these  years.  He  was  not  per- 
plexed by  the  Government's  capitulation,  but  by  the  fact 
that  capitulation  had  come  so  soon  without  a  stubborn 
fight,  almost  without  victims.  Seeing  how  suddenly,  ir- 
respective of  his  will  or  effort,  the  great  strijie  had 
started,  how  rapidly  it  had  spread,  how  deeply  it  affected 
all  Eussia,  he  understood  and  reluctantly  admitted  that 
it  was  not  the  Party  nor  the  committees  that  had  or- 
ganized it,  and  it  was  not  in  the  Party's  power  to  retard 
or  to  hasten  the  triumphal  course  of  events.  This  im- 
potence of  the  Party,  which  must  have  been  clear  to  all 
Eussia,  was  to  him  a  source  of  constant  grief. 

His  doubts  did  not  last  long.  One  day  as  he  was 
hurrying  to  the  editorial  room  of  the  Party  press,  which 
the  new  law  permitted  to  appear,  he  passed  along  the 
Admiral  Prospect  decked  in  holiday  trimmings. 

Darkened  by  the  autumn  wind  Neva's  waters  were 
angrily  rising  in  heavy,  leaden  waves.  The  air  was 
damp.  The  thick,  yellow  Petersburg  fog  was  begin- 
ning to  lift.  Crowds  were  filling  the  Aleksandr  Park, 
strewn  with  fallen  leaves,  the  grey,  silent  crowds,  which 
seemed  to  be  intent  on  some  important  work  common  to 
all.  They  were  streaming  from  the  park  to  the  Ad- 
miral Prospect  and  thence  to  the  Isaakieva  Plaza.  Here 
and  there  red  flags  were  hanging  in  tatters.  On  the 
black  branches  of  the  trees  and  on  the  iron  posts  sur- 
rounding the  park,  were  perched  hungry  street-urchins 
in  heavy  boots  and  with  ragged  hats  pulled  over  their 
ears.  A  young  student  from  the  Technological  Institute, 
with  coat  unbuttoned,  was  haranguing  the  crowd  in  a 
thin,  timid  voice :    Comrade !  .  .  .  Manifesto !  .  .  .  Lib- 


,70  What  Never  Happened 

erty!"  Through  the  cold  mist  Bolotov  could  hear  the 
familiar  words.  He  saw  the  crowds  of  people  and  above 
them  the  young  face  of  the  speaker.  He  could  not  get 
away.  Everywhere — in  front  of  him,  behind  him,  to  his 
left  and  to  his  right,  he  was  hemmed  in  by  wet  broad 
backs,  by  shoulders,  and  breasts.  Suddenly  the  student 
shouted  something  that  Bolotov  could  not  make  out.  A 
sudden  tremor  went  through  the  crowd ;  and  then,  after 
a  troubled  moment,  the  wall  of  human  bodies  broke  into 
a  wild  stampede,  madly,  breathlessly  trampling  one 
another  like  a  herd  of  frightened  beasts.  Children 
wailed,  mothers  wept,  men  turned  pale  and  tried  to  push 
their  way  through  the  crowd  with  clenched  fists.  There 
was  the  sound  of  the  tramping  of  hundreds  of  muffled 
feet.  Cries  of  fear  awoke  Bolotov  to  attention.  On 
the  deserted  Admiral  Prospect,  closing  the  exits  from 
the  park,  a  solid  mass  of  soldiery  in  wet,  grey  uniforms 
were  forming  a  barrier.  Somehow  these  uniforms  in 
their  oppressive  monotony  awoke  an  unreasoning  panic 
in  him.  *'Will  they  really  shoot?"  flashed  through 
Bolotov 's  mind,  but  he  immediately  laughed  away  the 
thought.  "Shoot?  But  we  have  freedom!"  He  reas- 
sured himself.  At  the  same  moment  a  strange,  sharp 
report  unexpectedly  cut  the  air.  Bolotov  saw  a  small, 
ugly  bundle  drop  from  a  bare,  consumptive-looking  lin- 
den-tree. A  boy  of  about  ten  lay  awkwardly  on  the 
dark,  wet  path,  as  quietly  as  though  he  had  not  fallen 
from  above,  but  had  lain  down  of  his  own  accord. 
From  afar  one  might  have  thought  him  sound  asleep. 
Bolotov  bent  over  the  child.  From  under  his  big  hat, 
which  probably  belonged  to  his  father,  showed  a  slender 
neck,  and  a  head  covered  with  fair  curling  hair.  His 
shoulders  were  very  narrow.     A  patched-up  shirt  stuck 


What  Never  Happened  71 

to  his  narrow,  childish  back  and  frail  little  body.  With- 
out any  thought  of  what  he  was  doing,  Bolotov  touched 
the  boy's  shoulder  cautiously,  but  instantly  withdrew 
his  fingers,  got  up  and  went  slowly  past  the  soldiers 
towards  the  Nevsky,  *' Shall  I  turn  around?  Or  shall 
I  not  turn?  Shall  I  run?"  He  thought,  feeling  a 
fevered  trembling  seize  him.  "What  is  it?  Am  I  a 
coward?"  The  thought  was  degrading;  so,  straight- 
ening himself  to  his  full  height,  he  deliberately  slackened 
his  pace  and  went  along  the  Nevsky  in  the  centre  of  the 
pavement.  He  found  he  was  alone.  There  was  not  a 
soul  near  him. 


CHAPTER  X 

EARLY  in  December,  when  the  snow  had  become 
solid  enough  for  sleigh-riding  and  the  frost  was 
beginning  to  decorate  the  window-panes,  they 
began  to  say  in  St.  Petersburg  that  barricades  were  un- 
avoidable. Bolotov  and  his  comrades  knew  that  no  or- 
ders could  force  people  to  revolt,  if  they  did  not  desire 
to;  but  though  they  knew  the  futility  of  their  delibera- 
tions they  considered  it  their  duty  to  the  Party  to  at- 
tempt to  solve  this  problem  of  countrywide  importance ; 
to  decide  whether  or  not  a  strike  should  take  place,  that 
is  to  say,  an  all-Russian  armed  revolt,  which  they  thought 
was  bound  to  be  victorious. 

The  meeting  was  fixed  for  eleven  o'clock  in  the  eve- 
ning on  the  Kamennoostrov  Prospect,  in  the  isolated 
home  of  the  merchant  Valabuyev.  At  the  entrance, 
built  in  the  Russian  style,  a  butler  opened  the  oak  doors 
noiselessly.  The  comrades  removed  their  coats,  shook 
off  the  snow  and  ascended  a  marble  staircase  to  the  study 
on  the  second  floor.  There  they  were  met  by  Valabuyev, 
a  stout,  over-fed  man,  the  flesh  of  whose  face  hung  in 
folds  and  who  wore  his  hair  cut  in  pompadour  fashion. 
He  was  dressed  in  English  style:  tight  trousers,  a  loose 
black  coat,  and  a  coloured  vest.  Though  unacquainted 
with  any  of  his  prospective  guests,  he  greeted  them  good- 
naturedly,  like  an  old  friend.  Arseny  Ivanovich's  pa- 
triarchal beard  filled  him  with  awe  and  respect. 

78 


What  Never  Happened  73 

When  Bolotov  entered,  all  the  comrades  were  as- 
sembled except  Arkady  Rosenstern  and  a  man  from 
Moscow  by  the  name  of  Vladimir  Gliebov,  or,  as  he  was 
called  in  the  Party,  Volodya. 

In  a  dim  corner  of  the  room  sitting  on  a  couch  under 
a  life-size  portrait  of  Tolstoy,  Vera  Andreyevna  was  con- 
versing with  an  old  Jew,  with  long,  thick  hair.  Bolotov 
knew  him ;  his  name  was  Zalkind.  He  knew  he  had  suf- 
fered all  his  life  in  prisons  and  had  served  the  revolu- 
tion as  well  as  he  could.  But  Bolotov  did  not  like  him. 
He  was  repelled  by  his  greenish,  sickly  face  covered  with 
red  pimples,  his  little  inflamed  eyes,  his  untidy  coat,  and 
his  exaggerated  friendliness  and  familiarity.  Bolotov 
was  ashamed  of  this  repugnance,  accusing  himself  of  in- 
justice and  prejudice.  So,  he  tried  to  be  particularly 
cordial  to  the  old  man,  who  when  he  saw  Bolotov, 
greeted  him  affably,  extending  his  wet  hand  without 
rising,  and  saying: 

"How  are  you?    What  news?     How  do  you  do?" 

* '  Thank  you.  How  are  you  ? ' '  Bolotov  answered  with 
a  forced  smile,  and  immediately  felt  that  mean,  intoxi- 
cating irritation  which  had  tormented  him  the  whole 
summer.    Looking  at  Zalkind  with  hatred  he  thought : 

"What  is  he  doing  here?  What  does  he  know?" 
His  disgust  was  growing. 

Vera  Andreyevna,  in  her  usual,  plain,  black  dress, 
lighting  one  cigarette  after  another,  was  telling  a  long 
story.  Bolotov  heard  her  exhausted,  monotonous  voice. 
She  had  been  arrested  and  confined  in  the  Poltava  dis- 
trict prison.    Zalkind  listened  and  sighed  in  sympathy. 

"You  know,"  Vera  Andreyevna  was  saying,  lighting 
her  extinguished  cigarette,  "few  books,  and  those  ex- 
clusively religious.  ...  No  visitors.  .  .  .  Boring.  ..." 


74  What  Never  Happened 

"Really  how  long  were  you  confined?"  Zalkind  sighed 
again. 

"Twenty-one  months." 

Bolotov  ceased  listening.  "My  God,"  he  thought, 
"what  are  they  talking  about?  Always  the  same,  the 
same,  the  same,  and  all  about  the  same." 

At  the  tea  table,  where  a  silver  samovar  stood,  Arseny 
Ivanovich,  Valabuyev  and  Doctor  Berg  were  seated  in 
arm-chairs.  Bolotov  went  over  to  the  table.  Arseny 
Ivanovich,  stirring  his  tea  with  a  spoon  and  looldng  slyly 
at  Valabuyev,  was  talking  in  his  bass  voice : 

"You  need  not  worry,  my  benefactor.  ...  It's  all 
very  clear.  .  .  .  What  if  they  did  arrest  the  Council  of 
Workmen's  Delegates?  Water  will  find  its  course. 
Just  wait,  the  constitutional  assembly  will  give  the 
land  to  the  people.  Now  we  shall  not  compromise  on 
half -measures.  No,  sir,  now  it's  either  everything  or 
nothing."  He  smiled  and  put  some  preserves  in  his 
tea.  "If  the  people  revolt,  what  then?  What  can  they 
do  then  ?  No,  my  benefactor,  now  we  have  won,  now  we 
are  on  top,  now  they  can  no  longer  resist  us.    Never ! ' ' 

Arseny  Ivanovich  wanted  to  convince  Valabuyev  that 
the  Party  was  big  and  strong,  but  Valabuyev  was  silent 
and  shook  his  round,  shorn  head  slightly;  from  which 
it  was  impossible  to  gather  whether  he  agreed  or  whether 
he  kept  from  arguing  out  of  politeness.  Doctor  Berg 
yawned,  looked  at  his  gold  monogrammed  watch,  and  in- 
terrupted Arseny  Ivanovich  with  a  touch  of  annoyance 
in  his  voice; 

* '  The  devil  take  it !  It 's  half  past  twelve.  Some  one 's 
always  late.     The  eternal  Russian  tardiness." 

Doctor  Berg  considered  himself  the  most  practical 
and  consequently  the  most  useful  and  most  valuable 


What  Never  Happened  75 

member  of  the  Party.  In  his  opinion  half  the  defeats 
of  the  revolution  were  due  to  the  inherent  laziness  of 
Kussian  and  Slav  and  to  their  inability,  as  he  put  it, 
to  "write  a  simple  business  letter."  He  loved  precision 
and  prided  himself  upon  the  fact  that  he  never  forgot 
addresses,  was  never  late  at  appointments  and  never 
mixed  up  "passwords."  '^Les  affaires  sont  les  af- 
faires/' he  always  said,  and  he  treated  with  contempt 
those  comrades  who  "had  busy  airs  on"  and  who 
"tempted  danger."  He  was  an  old  member  of  the 
Party,  but  had  never  been  arrested.  He  had  thin,  white 
hands,  wore  high  collars  and  coloured  ties. 

"So,  my  benefactor,"  Arseny  Ivanovich  resumed, 
stroking  Valabuyev  good-naturedly  on  his  back,  "I  will 
tell  you  of  a  case.  I  remember,  it  was  back  in  1877 — no, 
wait."  He  thought  a  moment.  "No,  not  in  seventy- 
seven,  but  in  seventy-eight." 

He  had  no  time  to  finish  his  story.  The  heavy  cur- 
tains parted  and  the  door  opened  noiselessly.  The 
man  who  entered  was  about  twenty-six,  very  tall,  with 
a  black  curly  beard  and  heavily  pock-marked  face.  He 
wore  a  blue  peasant  blouse  of  some  rough  material,  and 
might  have  been  taken  for  a  clerk,  or  day-labourer,  or 
for  a  young  merchant  of  the  Orthodox  church,  but  not 
for  a  revolutionist.  He  was  Gliebov,  the  legendary 
Volodya,  who  was  renowned  along  the  Volga  for  his 
desperate  courage.  Valabuyev  glanced  at  the  new  guest 
and  then  left  the  room  with  eyes  averted.  Volodya 
made  an  awkward  bow  and  sat  down  at  the  window,  near 
the  statue  of  the  Venus  of  Milo.  Arseny  Ivanovich 
coughed : 

"Well,  shall  we  begin,  benefactor?" 

And  in  exactly  the  same  way  as  a  year  ago,  when  dis- 


76  What  Never  Happened 

cussing  the  question  of  military  revolt,  they  now  began 
again  in  the  full  conviction  that  at  least  the  beginning 
of  the  revolution,  if  not  the  outcome,  depended  upon  their 
discussions.  Bolotov  listened,  contemptuous,  against  his 
own  will.  Unaccustomed  thoughts  thronged  into  his 
mind.  "Have  they  really  not  learned  yet?"  he  thought, 
unconsciously  using  the  discriminating  "they"  instead 
of  "we."  "Won't  the  example  of  David  be  suffi- 
cient? Don't  they  know  that  the  right  to  talk  about 
murder  is  given  only  to  the  man  who  himself  commits 
the  murder,  and  the  right  to  talk  about  death  is  given 
only  to  the  man  who  is  himself  ready  to  die,  who  has 
seen  death?"  He  looked  at  Gliebov.  He  had  heard 
him  spoken  of  as  a  straightforward,  courageous  revolu- 
tionist, and  he  feared  that  he  too  might  deliver  long, 
futile  speeches.  But  Volodj^a,  with  his  black  hairy  head 
sunk  on  his  breast  and  his  eyes  closed,  seemed  indiffer- 
ent, almost  asleep.  Bolotov  suddenly  felt  like  saying 
aloud,  so  that  everybody  might  hear  him,  the  whole 
Party,  every  comrade,  that  these  discussions  were  child's 
play  and  that  nothing  depended  on  them.  He  felt  like 
saying  that  should  an  uprising  materialize,  it  would  be 
brought  about  by  the  will  of  those  who  would  themselves 
earrj^  the  guns,  by  the  will  of  those  countless  workmen 
who,  without  asking  an3'body's  permission,  would  build 
barricades.  But  he  remained  silent.  He  felt  that  he 
would  not  be  understood  and  that  Doctor  Berg  would 
say  those  significant  words  to  which  he  would  not  have 
the  courage  to  reply.  Doctor  Berg  would  ask  him  in 
his  cold  manner:  "Do  you  deny  the  influence  of  the 
Party,  and  if  you  do,  why  do  you  remain  a  member  of 
it  ?  If  you  do  not,  how  can  you  treat  its  mandates  with 
contempt?" 


What  Never  Happened  77 

Arseny  Ivanovich  was  speaking  with  his  usual  author- 
ity and  imperiousness : 

"Why  should  we  deceive  ourselves?  .  .  .  Our  forces 
are  not  united,  but  disorganized.  .  .  .  We  have  little 
ammunition.  The  army  has  not  been  on  our  side  till 
now.  The  workmen  are  tired.  To  declare  a  strike  now 
would  mean  .  .  .  what  would  it  mean,  benefactors? 
...  It  would  mean  issuing  a  call  to  revolution,  to  an 
uprising  of  the  whole  people.  .  .  .  But  are  we  ready  for 
it?  You'd  better  listen  to  me.  I'm  an  old  man.  Rye 
bread  is  grandfather  to  the  wheat  roll.  .  .  .  We  must 
wait  a  while.  Last  spring  a  man  came  to  see  us,  what 
was  his  name?  David?  Or  what?  He  kept  gesticu- 
lating and  shouting:  a  revolt.  .  .  .  The  regiment  is  re- 
volting! .  .  .  And  he  didn't  take  our  advice."  Arseny 
Ivanovich  looked  reproachfully  at  Bolotov,  whom  he 
considered  responsible  for  David's  failure.  "Well, 
what  was  the  good  of  it  ?  There  was  no  revolt  and  they 
barely  escaped  with  their  lives.  So  my  opinion  is,  let's 
wait.  Better  a  small  field  than  a  large  marsh.  The 
time  isn't  ripe  for  revolts.  .  .  .  We  must  have  patience. 
.  ,  .  Wait  till  spring.  Then  we'll  see,  but  now — we 
mustn't,  we  mustn't,  we  mustn't." 

Arseny  Ivanovich  spoke  wisely  and  carefully.  But 
to  Bolotov  it  seemed  that  he  was  wrong,  and  his 
arguments  concealed  a  lie  that  he  could  not,  how- 
ever, detect.  He  wanted  to  say  something,  but  Vo- 
lodya  interceded.  He  rose  slowly  from  his  chair,  as  if 
he  had  been  dreaming,  looked  over  the  whole  company, 
smiled  faintly  at  Doctor  Berg's  greenish-yellow  tie,  and 
addressing  Arseny  Ivanovich,  he  began  in  a  loud  voice 
and  with  a  singing  Moscow  accent : 

"You're    talking   nonsense,    Arseny    Ivanovich.  .  .  . 


78  What  Never  Happened 

"What  have  we  assembled  here  for?  Is  it  to  weave  the 
philosophical  problem  of  the  fate  of  the  revolution  ? 
If  so,  then  it  would  be  best  for  us  to  take  our  leave  of 
one  another:  the  food  is  not  for  the  horse.  ...  I  haven't 
come  here  for  word  battles.  .  ,  .  The  question  is  not 
whether  it's  advisable  or  not  to  declare  a  strike — we  are 
not  going  to  declare  it  anyway — but  the  question  is  this : 
if  an  uprising  should  start  in  St.  Petersburg,  or  in  Mos- 
cow, or  anywhere  else  in  Russia,  what  is  the  Party  go- 
ing to  do  ?  I  ask  you !  What  assistance  can  the  Party 
offer?  There  has  been  one  general  strike  already. 
"Where  were  we  ?  I  say  it 's  a  disgrace ! ' '  Volodya  was 
silent  for  a  minute.  *' We  must  provide  money,  ammuni- 
tion, men  .  .  .  and  we  must  go  ourselves  .  .  .  and  not 
sit  around  in  idleness."  He  finished  resolutely  and  sat 
down. 

At  his  last  words  Arseny  Ivanovich  began  to  drum 
on  the  table  with  his  fingers.  Vera  Andreyevna  blushed. 
Zalkind  winked  his  inflamed  eyes  and  looked  at  Volodya 
in  indignant  surprise. 

"Then  you  mean  to  say,  comrade,"  Doctor  Berg  re- 
marked coldly,  rubbing  his  white  hands,  "if  I  have  under- 
stood you  rightly,  that  the  situation  is  this:  if  anybody, 
should  anywhere,  without  asking  the  Party's  permission, 
on  his  own  initiative,  build  a  barricade,  we  must  come  to 
his  assistance?     Have  I  understood  you  correctly?" 

"Exactly,"  Volodya  answered  reluctantly  and  lighted 
a  cigarette. 

"Very  well,  we  must  give  him  our  assistance,  in  other 
words  exhaust  the  means  of  the  Party?     Is  that  it?" 

"Exactly." 

"And  not  only  exhaust  the  means  of  the  Party,  but 
kill  ourselves,  besides?" 


Wliat  Never  Happened  79 

''Yes,  if  necessary." 

"Very  well.  That  means,  that  should  an  uprising 
break  out  in  Moscow  tomorrow,  we  must  go  to  Moscow  ? ' ' 

"You  must  go  to  Moscow." 

"And  relinquish  all  our  business  in  St.  Petersburg?" 

"The  devil,  what  business  are  you  in  anyway?"  Vo- 
lodya  shouted  suddenly  and  jumped  up  from  his  chair. 
"Tongue  exercising?  Arguing?  Solving  philosophical 
questions  ?  In  the  devil 's  name,  what  other  business  can 
there  be  when  there  is  an  uprising?" 

"Ah,  youth,  youth!"  Arseny  Ivanovich  broke  in  in 
a  conciliatory  tone.  "Both  here  and  there.  .  .  .  You 
want  an  uprising  ,  .  .  and  you  want  speed  .  .  .  and  by 
all  means  tomorrow  and  it's  none  of  your  concern  who 
will  untangle  the  mess.  Wait  till  you're  as  old  as  I  am, 
then  you  '11  understand ! ' ' 

"Of  course,  you  know  it  all,"  Volodya  answered  with 
a  smile.  "You're  our  fathers.  But  I  haven't  come 
from  Moscow  for  directions,  I  have  come  on  business. 
Are  you  going  to  give  us  money  ?  Yes  or  no  ?  Will  you 
give  us  ammunition?  Yes  or  no?  Have  you  got  men? 
Yes  or  no?" 

When  Volodya,  still  flushed  with  anger,  was  on  the 
carpeted  marble  stairs,  and  Valabuyev  in  his  stylish 
vest  and  English  coat  was  shaking  his  head,  Bolotov, 
who  had  been  silent  all  evening,  came  over  to  him  ir- 
resolutely. 

"Listen,  Gliebov— " 

' '  What  is  it  ? "  Volodya  flung  out  in  annoyance,  as  he 
was  going  down  the  stairs. 

"Wait,  I'm  going  to  Moscow  with  you." 

Volodya  stopped  and  looked  at  him  suspiciously. 

"You?" 


80  What  Never  Happened 

Bolotov  felt  hurt.  Though  he  failed  to  notice  the  con- 
tempt in  Volodya's  words  (he  could  not  believe  that 
anybody  could  despise  him,  so  thoroughly  was  he  con- 
vinced that  his  life  was  justified,  important  and  full  of 
sacrifices)  yet  he  caught  that  in  Volodya's  eyes  he  was 
not  the  famous  revolutionist  Audrey  Bolotov,  a  man 
beloved  by  the  whole  Party,  deserving  of  respect  and 
confidence,  but  a  man  whose  courage  and  resoluteness 
were  still  to  be  proved.  He  wanted  to  become  angry, 
but  the  other  man's  stern  face  was  suddenly  lighted  by 
a  smile. 

"Very  well!  Tomorrow?  Exactly.  If  you  want  to 
eat  doughnuts,  don't  lie  on  the  stove. ' '  Volodya  laughed 
and  banged  the  heavy  oaken  door. 

They  left  together  from  the  Nikolayev  station,  by  the 
next  train  for  Moscow. 


A 


CHAPTER  XI 

*'  /^  NSWER  me  one  question,"  said  Bolotov,  as 
the  train  started;  "why  were  you  surprised 
that  I  wanted  to  go  to  Moscow?  Do  you 
really  tliink  we  are  unfit  for  things  that  any  member  of 
your  organization  can  do?" 

Volodya  did  not  answer  immediately.  He  wrinkled  his 
brow  in  thought,  which  made  his  face  lose  its  usual  stern- 
ness and  become  simple  and  kind,  a  plain  Russian  face. 

"How  shall  I  explain?"  he  began,  as  he  took  off  his 
shabby  cap  and  put  it  up  on  the  rack.  "True,  I  have 
very  little  faith  in  those  who  merely  exercise  their 
tongues.  Still,  of  course,  there  are  exceptions.  But 
what  irritates  me  most  is  this:  if  one  can't  keep  pace, 
let  him  drop  out;  nobody's  pulling  him  on  a  rope,  so 
why  all  this  talk  ?  Let  them  hold  their  tongues,  and  not 
shout,  'We're  going  to  do  this  and  we're  going  to  do 
that,  and  we're  the  salt  of  the  earth,  we're  the  intelli- 
gentzia, we're  the  Party,  we're  the  Revolution,  we'll 
remake  the  world.'  .  .  .  There  was  one  like  that,  for  in- 
stance,— I've  read  about  him  somewhere — so  he  just 
used  to  hack  away  in  this  style:  *We  are  the  master- 
builders,  the  solenesses,  we  build  lofty  air  castles  on  stone 
foundations.'  How  do  you  like  that?  That's  what  I 
call  shameless.  Why,  when  we  get  down  to  action,  to  real 
action,  where  will  they  be,  those  masterbuilders  ?  You 
couldn't  find  them  with  a  light  in  the  daytime.  And  if 
anything  has  been  achieved,  it  was  not  by  them,  not  by 

81 


82  Wliat  Never  Happened 

those  who  issue  decisions  and  publish  red-tape  circulars. 
It's  all  a  fake.  And  a  big  one.  I  know,  j'ou  cannot 
fool  me,  but  the  workman  believes  every  word  of  theirs. 
.  .  .  And  they?     Bali!" 

Volodya,  sincerely  affected,  waved  an  emphatic  ges- 
ture and  began  to  roll  a  cigarette  with  his  heavy  fingers. 

"Just  like  Vanya  and  myself,"  flashed  through  Bol- 
otov's  mind,  but  the  thought  annoyed  him.  Isn't 
Arseny  Ivanovich  ready  to  give  his  life?  Or  Doctor 
Berg?  Or  Vera  Andreyevna?  Or  Zalkind?  Or  he 
himself  ?     In  fact  wasn  't  he  now  on  his  way  to  IMoscow  ? 

*  *  Really,  why  am  I  going  to  Moscow  ? "  he  asked  him- 
self, but  found  no  answer;  and  said  frowning: 

"Are  you  not  ashamed  to  think  that  they — that  we," 
he  corrected  himself,  "are  lying?  If  it  should  come  to 
it,  we  would  give  our  lives  as  freely  as  the  others." 

"A  turtle  travels  but  never  arrives.  You'd  better  ex- 
plain this  to  me,"  Volodya  answered  quietly,  blowing 
the  smoke  in  rings.  "I'm  a  poor  philosopher  and  can't 
understand  these  quibbles  of  yours.  But  what  I  do 
see,  I  speak  out.  Does  the  Party  recognize  terror? 
Yes?  And  who  throws  bombs?  You?  Indeed,  not. 
Not  one  of  you  has  ever  held  a  bomb  in  his  hands. 
Does  the  Party  preach  revolt?  Yes?  And  who  is 
fighting  on  the  barricades,  in  the  army-barracks,  on  the 
battleships?  You?  No,  not  you.  Not  one  of  you  has 
ever  even  smelt  gunpowder.  You  heard  how  that  Ger- 
man of  yours.  Berg,  was  frightened —  Let  all  our  affairs 
be  in  St.  Petersburg!  Ah,  and  oh,  and  ah,  once  more. 
.  .  .  Always  the  same  thing.  'Affairs  of  national  im- 
portance' are  for  ever  in  the  way.  Why  aren't  they  in 
my  way?  What  are  those  affairs  of  national  im- 
portance?   If  they  really  existed,  very  well,  but  it's 


What  Never  Happened  83 

all  mere  talk.  You  say  'if  it  should  come  to  it.'  Of 
course,  I  don't  contradict,  but  how  should  it  come  to 
it  if  you  sit  behind  seven  bolts,  spend  your  life  in  per- 
petual meetings,  the  devil  take  them?  This  is  what  I 
think,  that  if  you're  a  member  of  the  Party,  which 
recognizes  terror,  you  must  be  able  to  come  out  any 
moment  with  a  bomb  in  your  own  hands.  But  what 
are  the  facts?  Out  of  ten — what  ten?  Out  of  a  hun- 
dred one  goes,  but  where  are  the  others?  You'll  say, 
propaganda,  agitation,  organization,  and  all  sorts  of 
things.  Very  well.  But  tell  me,  in  the  devil's  name, 
what  good  is  it  to  preach  revolt  when  you  yourself  like 
a  coward  keep  away?  Just  think — you  write  articles 
on  terror,  you  harangue,  you  shout,  but  you  yourself 
don 't  go  in  for  terror,  and  yet  you  believe  you  're  right. 
'We're  the  leaders  of  the  Party,  we're  its  brains,'  or, 
we  have  no  'special  talents.'  Special  talents? — For 
what?  For  dying?  What  the  devil  does  one  have  to 
have  a  special  talent  for  dying  for?  Don't  be  a  coward, 
don't  be  a  coward,  and  once  more,  don't  be  a  coward! 
That's  all  there  is  to  it.  It's  disgusting  to  look  on,  by 
God !  Some  f ourflusher  in  a  high  collar  and  a  tie,  like 
a  peacock,  sits  and  talks  through  his  teeth — 'taking  into 
consideration' — 'inasmuch  as' — or  writes  circulars  that 
nobody  wants  to  read,  or  if  they  are  read,  they  get 
thrown  into  the  waste-basket.  And  he  has  his  justifica- 
tions: 'I'm  not  going  in  for  terror  because  "division 
of  labour"  has  been  invented.'  But  where  is  justice? 
Plehve  was  killed,  for  instance.  The  plain  people  were 
wild  with  joy.  That's  their  privilege.  It's  their  lot 
either  to  dance  with  joy  or  to  curse.  They  are  no  heroes, 
and  we  demand  nothing  of  them.  But  how  about  the 
eagles  ?     The  Party  ?    Why,  the  dear  comrades,  the  hon- 


84  What  Never  Happened 

curable  members  of  tlie  Party,  on  reading  the  telegram 
about  Plehve's  death,  were  intoxicated  with  joy.  Each 
one  of  them  ought  to  die  of  shame  that  it  wasn't  he  who 
killed  Plehve.  He  ought  to  be  bursting  with  envy.  But 
not  a  bit.  We  are  terrorists,  of  course,  in  words  only. 
So  they  took  a  drink,  sang  the  ]\Iarseillaise,  and  that's 
all.  Let  the  Sazonovs  create  terror,  and  we  shall  write 
books  about  terror,  and  have  them  printed  across  the 
frontier.  Well,  if  we're  caught,  they  will  put  us  in  the 
fortress  for  a  year  or  send  us  to  Siberia.  That's  all! 
Nothing  to  worry  about.    Bah!" 

"What  do  you  think  we  ought  to  do?" 
''What  you  ought  to  do?  Here's  what.  Every  able- 
bodied  one  of  you  ought  to  take  a  gun  and  fight,  and 
all  the  babies  and  weaklings,  the  cowards  and  talkers — 
in  the  neck.  Then  something  would  happen.  Now  there 
is  no  order.  There  is  an  all-Russian  chancery,  but  noth- 
ing more.  Agitation,  propaganda — very  well.  But  is 
this  the  time  to  exercise  our  tongues?  There  is  a  revo- 
lution on.  You  understand,  the  revolution  is  here.  Not 
coming,  but  here,  with  us.  It's  not  that  we  must  get 
ready,  but  we  must  act!  It's  just  as  if  the  Germans 
would  attack  us  and  we  should  begin  to  teach  the 
soldiers  the  ABC,  instead  of  defending  our  fort- 
ress. You  can't  win  a  battle  with  books,  but  fists,  not 
by  whining  and  praying  but  by  bombs,  machine-guns 
and  blood.  Well,  and  now  consider  this:  how  many 
members  are  there  in  the  Party?  Say  ten  thousand. 
Throw  your  book  into  the  fire,  arm  these  men,  let  them 
go  into  battle.  That's  a  force,  isn't  it?  And  every 
one  of  them  talks  about  terror  and  barricades.  But 
what  are  we  doing?  What?  It's  a  disgrace.  A  hun- 
dred or  two  ready  to  go,  and  a  hundred  or  two  are  going 


What  Never  Happened  85 

— without  your  permission.  And  you  put  your  hands 
together  and  you  urge  them:  go  ahead,  dear  boys,  fight 
and  we'll  sit  home,  drink  tea,  and  discuss  philosophical 
problems,  or  we'll  call  a  conference,  prepare  some  pro- 
found reports,  deliver  a  few  ringing  speeches,  and  what's 
worst  of  all,  nobody  will  know  or  see  how  shameful  it 
all  is.  It 's  all  very  proper.  It's  just  the  thing.  This  is 
the  truth.  Why,  they  even  talk  of  morality.  Our  moral- 
ity, they  say,  is  high,  above  the  morality  of  the  bourgeoisie. 
We  are  Socialists  and  so  on.     What  a  disgrace!" 

As  Volodya  went  on  talking  Bolotov  began  to  feel  an 
unpleasant  dizziness  and  a  choking  sensation.  The  be- 
loved, snow-white  Party  was  becoming  dirty,  soiled,  as 
if  strange  clutching  fingers  had  passed  over  it.  And 
as  the  night  before  in  Valabuyev's  house,  he  had  felt  like 
replying  to  Arseny  Ivanovich,  like  shouting  that  his 
words  were  a  lie,  so  now  he  was  seized  by  a  malicious 
feeling.  "No,  he's  not  right,  he's  not  right,"  he  kept 
on  saying  to  himself,  trying  not  to  look  at  Volodya, 
"That's  not  true,  no,  it  isn't." 

"And  what  is  most  important  of  all,"  Volodya  con- 
tinued quietly,  rolling  another  cigarette,  "they  bother 
us.  If  at  least  they'd  lie  on  the  oven  and  keep  still. 
But  no.  They  keep  on  butting  in.  They  sentimental- 
ize— don't  do  this,  this  is  immoral,  it's  not  permissible. 
They  would  like  to  make  a  revolution  with  kid  gloves. 
They  don't  understand,"  he  suddenly  raised  his  voice 
to  a  shout,  "that  blood  is  always  blood,  no  matter  how 
you  paint  it,  how  you  wash  your  hands,  'Less  blood,' 
they  say.  But  that's  hypocrisy.  We  are  not  going 
to  church:  if  you  have  no  money,  steal,  or,  as  you  say, 
'expropriate.'  I  was  on  the  Volga  recently.  My  God, 
what's  going  on  there!    It's  a  pitiful  sight.    A  man  is 


86  "What  Never  Happened 

in  liiding  from  the  hangman;  if  he's  caught,  it's  all  over 
with  him,  and  he  goes  about  without  a  passport,  with- 
out boots  on,  without  anything  to  eat  for  three  days  at  a 
stretch.  Well,  what  is  he  to  do?  If  he  robs  a  govern- 
ment store,  steals  some  money,  he's  saved.  So  accord- 
ing to  you,  he  mustn't,  but  if  he  does,  he  should  see  to 
it  that  there  are  no  victims,  and  particularly  no  private 
victims!  Why,  of  course!  Do  no  harm  to  the  bloated 
bourgeois,  to  the  captains  of  industry,  Mr.  Pocketrob,  or 
to  the  landowner,  the  benefactor  of  peasants,  or  to  some 
General  Debauche,  or  to  spider  ]\Ir.  Strangleall.  Not 
allowed,  God  forbid!  They're  private  people.  That 
means — the  man  must  hang.  Nonsense!"  lie  brought 
his  fist  down.  *'In  war,  no  parlour  methods,  but  war. 
What  is  there  to  be  so  nice  about?  They  won't  be  nice 
to  us.  They'll  take  us  by  the  neck  and  put  the  necktie 
on  us  in  broad  daylight,  and  we  are  trying  to  be  good  to 
ourselves  and  to  them — to  acquire  capital — and  preserve 
the  innocence  of  a  virgin.  It's  all  silliness.  You  sit 
around  like  statues  and  nurse  your  holiness  for  thirty 
years,  and  in  the  meantime  they  beat  you  till  you  bleed. 
Be  daring!  Dare  anything.  Then  you  are  a  man. 
Worms ! 

"There  are  no  problems,  everything  is  permissible, 
you  hear,  everything.  As  long  as  we  get  what  we're 
after,  as  long  as  we  win  out.  With  all  those  problems, 
with  aU  that  philosophy,  with  kid  gloves,  the  devil  take 
it,  you  won't  get  far.  .  .  .  Well,  I've  babbled  a  lot." 
Gliebov  checked  himself  abruptly.  "I  don't  take  much 
stock  in  these  talks — these  intellectual  talks.  You 
mustn't  blame  me.  Tomorrow  we'll  do  business  in 
Moscow,  and  we'll  leave  the  discussion  to  the  philoso- 
phers in  stiff  shirts,  damn  them !    Good  night." 


What  Never  Happened  87 

Volodya  took  off  his  coat,  rolled  it  up  for  a  pillow, 
turned  to  the  wall,  and  fell  asleep  at  once.  It  was 
stormy  outside.  Mingling  with  the  noise  of  the  wheels 
one  could  hear  a  faint  pitiful  wailing.  Bolotov  with 
his  head  bowed  in  his  hands  stared  at  the  shabby  cov- 
ering of  the  seats  and  sighed.  ''Is  Volodya  right? 
No,  of  course  not.  It  isn't  true.  Then  what  is?"  lie 
asked  himself  for  the  hundredth  time.  ''Is  every  mem- 
ber of  the  Party  bound  to  be  under  arms  in  time  of  a 
revolution?  Yes,  of  course.  That  means  that  Arseny 
Ivanovich,  and  Doctor  Berg,  and  I,  and  thousands  of 
others  like  myself,  are  liars  and  cowards.  But  we  are 
not  liars.  I'm  no  liar  and  coward.  I  know  I'm  no  liar. 
I  know  I  can  be  a  soldier — yes,  yes,  yes — just  an  obscure 
soldier  of  the  Party.  I  know  that  every  one  of  us  is 
ready  to  give  his  life.  But  mustn't  the  Party  be  man- 
aged? It  must.  Then  Arseny  Ivanovich  and  I  and 
Vera  Andreyevna  and  Doctor  Berg  are  doing  good  and 
useful  work.  But  what  are  we  doing?  Isn't  it  true 
that  we  are  preaching  murder,  but  are  not  killing  our- 
selves? Isn't  it  true  that  we  talk,  talk,  talk,  but  when 
it  comes  to  action,  we're  not  there?  And  does  talk 
mean  managing?"  So  Bolotov  thought,  rocking  his 
body  to  and  fro,  in  time  to  the  motion  of  the  train,  feel- 
ing that  he  was  losing  himself  in  a  maze.  "But  then 
Arseny  Ivanovich  and  Doctor  Berg  and  myself  are  liars, 
and  we  ought  to  be  thrown  out  like  useless  rubbish,  we 
ought  to  get  a  vagabond's  passport." 

"Your  ticket,  please,"  said  a  sleepy  voice.  A  drowsy 
conductor  with  a  lantern  hanging  from  his  belt  punched 
the  little  yellow  piece  of  cardboard  and  said,  returning 
it: 

"Going  to  Moscow?    It's  dangerous  there." 


88  What  Never  Happened 

"Why?" 

"Hope  to  God  we  get  there.  They  say,  it's  not  quiet 
in  Moscow." 

The  train  stopped.  The  doors  opened,  and  the  frosty 
air  entered  from  the  vestibule.  The  conductor's  hat, 
coat  and  boots  were  covered  with  snow.  The  storm 
must  have  been  at  its  height.  Loud  voices,  distinct  in 
the  stillness  of  the  night,  came  from  the  station  plat- 
form. "Give  the  third  bell."  The  locomotive  whistled. 
The  station  lamps  began  to  move  past  the  train.  Bol- 
otov,  without  undressing,  threw  himself  at  length  on  the 
couch. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THREE  men  were  standing  at  the  gate  of  the  two- 
story  stone  house  of  merchant  Brizgalov  in 
Dobraya  Slobodka,  Two  were  dressed  in 
peasant  costume,  and  the  third,  a  pale,  sickly-looking  Jew, 
had  on  a  light  overcoat.  About  forty  yards  away  from 
them  a  few  young  workmen,  engaged  in  lively  conversa- 
tion, were  busying  themselves  with  a  hack-drivers' 
sledge.  Near  them  the  street  was  littered  with  rub- 
bish, rotting  boards,  a  telegraph  pole,  a  yellow  chiffonier, 
a  window  frame  and  broad  sheets  of  iron,  which  rang 
in  the  gusts  of  wind.  The  snow,  which  had  fallen  dur- 
ing the  night  and  was  untouched  by  traffic,  sparkled 
in  the  sunlight.  In  the  Church  of  the  Resurrection  at 
Barashy  the  chimes  were  ringing  for  the  noon  service. 

One  of  the  men  dressed  in  a  fur  jacket  was  watching 
what  was  going  on  around  the  sledge  curiously.  He 
was  rather  short,  with  high  cheekbones  and  narrow  slit- 
like eyes,  and  his  rough  hands  were  callous  from  the 
cold. 

"Look  at  the  fun,  Seriozha.  By  God,  he  can't  un- 
harness it, ' '  he  said  with  a  laugh. 

*'He'll  unharness  it,"  Seriozha  said  lazily. 

"The  driver  is  cursing.  I'd  better  go  and  take  a 
look, ' '  the  first  speaker  replied  after  a  pause,  and  walked 
slowly  over  to  the  group  of  shouting,  cursing  men. 

"Well,  comrades,  what's  wrong?"  He  raised  his 
voice,    "What?" 

99 


90  What  Never  Happened 

The  withered  old  driver,  who  wore  a  faded  blue  coat, 
was  pulling  at  his  scraggy  horse.  On  seeing  a  new  man 
coming  up  he  let  go  the  reins  and  began  to  stammer, 
bowing  low,  and  with  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"Oh,  oh,  oh,  benefactor — excellency,  please  tell  them 
to  let  me  go.  The  horse  isn't  mine.  So  help  me  Christ, 
the  horse  belongs  to  my  master,  so  does  the  sledge.  The 
master  will  take  it  out  of  me.  Oh,  oh,  oh !  Show  a  little 
mercy  for  God's  sake.     Let  me  go." 

' '  Shut  up,  you  old  radish !  And  what  are  you  stand- 
ing around  for?     Hey,  comrade,  it's  you  I  mean!" 

Five  or  six  red-faced  factory  workers  and  a  youngster 
in  a  fur  coat  were  pointing  laughingly  to  a  lean  gentle- 
man with  a  pince-nez.  This  gentleman  was  making  fu- 
tile attempts  to  unfasten  the  harness.  His  thin,  frozen 
fingers  would  not  obey  him  and  he  only  succeeded  in 
making  it  still  tighter.  One  of  the  onlookers  covered 
his  face  with  his  sleeve  and  tried  to  stifle  his  laughter. 

"You  see,  he  was  boasting  he  would  unharness  the 
horse." 

"What  a  helpless  creature !  Hands  like  meat  hooks," 
said  the  man  in  the  fur  jacket  scornfully,  as  he  removed 
the  harness  quickly  and  easily.  "Well,  now  take  the 
horse  away." 

The  gentleman  with  the  pince-nez  took  the  reins  awk- 
wardly. The  decrepit  horse,  breathing  heavily,  its 
head  drooping,  took  two  steps  and  stopped  short,  mo- 
tionless as  a  statue.  The  driver,  looking  on  intently  at 
the  disposition  of  his  master's  property,  pulled  off  his 
cap  and  threw  it  vigorously  into  the  snow : 

"Go  to  it.  It's  all  up  with  me.  Take  it,  boys,  take 
it.  Take  the  horse,  take  the  sledge.  What's  the  use? 
It's   your   business.     God    help    you!     And    the    Holy 


Wliat  Never  Happened  91 

Mother!"  He  turned  to  the  gilded  church  spire  which 
sparkled  in  the  distance,  and  crossed  himself  with 
trembling  hands. 

' '  Vanya ! ' '  Seriozha  called  loudly. 

*'What?'' 

"Come  here,  Vanya." 

''What  for?" 

"Somebody's  coming  along  the  Mashkov  Lane." 

Vanya  let  go  the  shafts  and  turned  back  to  the  gate, 
sinking  in  the  soft  snow  as  he  went.  After  a  whispered 
conversation  with  his  comrades,  he  ran  to  the  Mashkov 
Lane.  Along  the  deserted  sidewalk  came  two  men.  One 
of  them  he  recognized  by  his  black  beard  and  his  height 
to  be  Volodya.  The  other  also  looked  familiar.  He 
was  tall  and  shaven  and  blue-eyed. 

'  *  My  God,  is  it  you,  Vladimir  Ivanovich  ?  We  've  been 
waiting  for  you  so  impatiently."  Vanya  greeted  them 
joyfully,  trying  to  recollect  where  he  had  seen  those  blue 
eyes  before. 

Bolotov  held  out  his  hand. 

"Don't  you  know  me?" 

'  *  Pardon  me.  I  can 't  recall. ' '  Vanya  blushed  in  em- 
barrassment. 

"What  are  you  doing,  boys?"  Volodya  shouted  mer- 
rily. "A  barricade?  That's  good.  They'll  get  theirs. 
Ah  David,  you  here?"     He  nodded  to  the  Jew. 

David  began  to  talk  hurriedly. 

"Yes,  yes — a  barricade,  Vladimir  Ivanovich.  You 
know,  in  Paris,  at  the  time  of  the  commune —  Ah,  are 
you  with  us,  too,  Bolotov?  How  wonderful!  Ah,  you 
know,  Vladimir  Ivanovich?  It's  all  so  wonderful.  We 
were  fighting  yesterday.  Since  last  night  we  have  had 
barricades  in  Moscow.    It's  revolution,  Vladimir  Ivan- 


92  What  Never  Happened 

ovich!  And  what's  going  on  in  St.  Petersburg?  Noth- 
ing? "What  do  you  mean?  No  uprising  in  St.  Peters- 
burg? Well,  as  I  was  saying,  yesterday,  you  know,  we 
repelled  an  attack  not  far  from  here  in  the  Chistoprudny 
Park.  You  don't  believe  me?  So  help  me  God,  we 
did.  Ask  Seriozha.  And  now  I'm  certain  there'll  be 
a  constitutional  assembly,  there'll  be  a  republic.  What 
do  you  think,  Audrey  Nikolayevich ?     Eh?" 

The  "attack"  of  which  David  spoke  had  been  the 
product  of  his  imagination.  He  sincerely  believed  that 
a  battle  had  taken  place  the  day  before  and  that  he  had 
emerged  triumphant.  But  the  fact  was,  that  when  the 
revolutionists,  passers-by,  storekeepers,  drivers,  mes- 
sengers and  tramps  had  built  the  first  barricade  in  Mos- 
cow, and  David,  overwhelmed  with  joy,  had  raised  the 
red  banner  over  it,  a  detachment  of  Cossacks,  six  men 
in  all,  appeared  on  horses  from  Maroseyka  Street.  As 
soon  as  they  noticed  the  barricades  and  the  armed 
men,  the  Cossacks  halted.  They  paused  irresolutely  for 
a  moment,  looking  at  one  another  and  then  suddenly 
turned  around,  as  if  at  somebody's  command,  and  rode 
hurriedly  away  making  the  feathery  snow  fly.  With- 
out knowing  why,  merely  because  he  had  a  revolver  in 
his  hand,  David  sent  several  shots  after  them,  but  he 
did  not  kill  or  wound  any  one.  He  was  offended  be- 
cause Volodya  was  listening  to  him  unwillingly.  He 
wanted  to  go  on  talking  and  tell  Bolotov  how  he  and 
Seriozha  had  gone  bravely  to  the  army  barricades,  how 
they  had  been  shot  at,  how  they  and  the  soldier  Gabayev 
had  walked  away,  how  Gabayev  was  later  arrested  in 
Odessa,  and  how  they  had  gone  to  Finland,  had  found 
the  famous  Gliebov,  and  had  become  members  of  his 


.What  Never  Happened  93 

fighting  organization.  But  he  saw  Volodya's  serious 
face  and  he  sighed  and  kept  quiet. 

"Are  you  working?"  Volodya  asked  the  men  who  were 
building  the  barricades. 

"Working,  Vladimir  Ivanovich!"  exclaimed  several 
voices.  The  youngster  in  a  fur  coat  raised  his  face, 
red  from  the  cold,  thought  a  while,  scratched  his  back 
and  laughed.  Volodya  went  over  to  the  sleigh  and, 
with  a  motion  that  looked  surprisingly  light  for  his  big 
body,  jokingly  lifted  it  about  a  yard  from  the  ground. 
As  if  testing  his  great  strength  he  held  the  sleigh  for  a 
moment  and  then  dropped  it  upon  the  rising  barricade. 

"So,"  he  said  with  a  broad  smile. 

Bolotov  watched  him  with  gi'owing  agitation.  The 
deserted,  snow-covered  streets  of  Moscow,  the  shuttered 
windows,  the  barred  shops  and  stores,  the  complete  ab- 
sence of  policemen  and  Cossack  patrols,  and  the  bar- 
ricade that  was  being  built  here  on  Chistiye  Prudy  Street 
made  Bolotov  feel  that  something  of  serious  importance 
was  happening  in  Russia,  something  that  did  not  happen 
through  his  or  any  one  else's  individual  will.  He  saw  it 
was  not  the  Party's  authority  that  had  upset  Moscow,  the 
rich,  active,  populous,  peaceful  city.  Now  the  St.  Peters- 
burg conferences  seemed  insignificant  and  ridiculous. 
He  tried  to  understand  what  hidden  force  was  moving 
the  people  who  had  begun  to  build  barricades  on  Lefor- 
tov,  Kozhevniky,  Miiisy,  and  Arbata  Streets,  in  all  parts 
of  the  city,  and  had  resolved  to  risk  their  lives  and 
to  kill.  But  it  was  beyond  him.  As  he  stood  there 
in  the  rays  of  the  winter  sun,  on  the  white  snow, 
among  joyous,  healthy,  armed  men,  who  were  skilfully 
carrying  out  their  unfamiliar,  dangerous  work,  he  felt 


94  What  Never  Happened 

happy  and  invigourated.  All  Moscow  seemed  to  him  to 
have  risen  as  one  man  under  the  impulse  of  a  Russian 
force,  stored  'through  the  ages,  and  he  was  stirred  by  a 
sense  of  a  new,  heavy  responsibility,  not  to  the  Party, 
not  to  Arseny  Ivanovich,  but  to  all  Russia,  which  was 
shaken  by  the  revolution.  It  also  seemed  to  him  that 
he  was  chosen  to  be  the  leader  who  would  carry  the  re- 
belling people  to  victory.  He  turned  to  Vanya  with  a 
warm  smile: 

' '  How  is  it  you  have  forgotten  me  so  soon  ? ' ' 

**I  had  absolutely,"  Vanya  smiled  back.  "Do  you 
remember  how  you  frightened  me?" 

"Frightened  you?" 

"Yes.     I  thought  you  were  a  spy." 

Bolotov  laughed.  ' '  So  that 's  how  he  understands  me. 
But  what  difference  does  it  make?  Is  it  important? 
No,  the  sun  is  important,  the  men,  the  barricades,  and 
the  fact  that  he  and  I  are  together  at  the  barricades. 
Are  we  really  at  a  barricade?"  he  asked  himself  won- 
deringly.  "Yes,  I  am  in  Moscow.  And  there  is  an  up- 
rising in  Moscow.  There  is  an  uprising  in  Russia.  It's 
splendid.  Everything  is  splendid,"  he  murmured  al- 
most aloud,  as  if  trying  to  convince  himself  that  he  was 
not  asleep  and  everything  was  indeed  splendid.  Doctor 
Berg  suddenly  came  to  his  mind.  "Oh,  well,  let  him 
solve  his  own  problems  there,"  he  thought  without  any 
ill  will. 

"Look  here,  boys,"  Volodya  said,  "the  barricades  are 
finished.  "What's  the  use  of  wasting  our  time  any 
longer?  You,  Vasily  Grigoryevich,  keep  watch  here,  at 
our  fortress."  He  turned  to  the  man  with  the  pince-nez. 
The  man  all  this  time  had  been  watching  Volodya  with 
loving,  admiring  eyes.    "And  we'll  go  into  Brizgalov's 


What  Never  Happened  95 

yard.     Who  are  you  ? "  he  said,  turning  to  the  youngster 
in  the  fur  jacket. 

"Yes,  you.    Where  have  you  come  from?" 

"I?     I'm  Brizgalov's  porter." 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  Volodya  frowned. 

"Please,  your  excellency,"  the  porter  stammered,  re- 
moving his  cap,  "it's  very  interesting." 

"Interesting?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  the  devil  take  you,  stay  here  and  keep  watch." 

Volodya  opened  the  gate  and  entered  the  yard. 

The  narrow  birch-lined  yard  had  a  neglected  look. 
The  naked  branches  of  the  trees  and  the  paths  and  the 
lawn  were  covered  with  the  silvery  snow.  It  looked  like 
a  beautiful  carpet  even  more  chastely  pure  than  the 
pavements  outside. 

When  all  were  assembled,  Volodya  said ; 

"Listen,  boys,  God  owns  the  bold  ones,  while  the 
devil  swings  the  drunks.  A  barricade  is  a  good  thing, 
but  we  are  not  going  to  win  Moscow  by  standing  around. 
We  need  not  wait  till  the  officials  come,  we  must  call  on 
them.     What  do  you  think,  Seriozha?" 

"What  I  think?  There's  nothing  to  think,"  Seriozha 
answered,  lighting  a  cigarette.  "We  must  make  ter- 
ror. ' ' 

"How?  How?  What  do  you  mean?  How  make 
terror?"  David  broke  in  hurriedly. 

"How?"  Volodya  frowned  again. 

"Well,  that's  a  minor  matter.  We'll  see  later  how 
to  go  about  it.  Have  we  all  got  revolvers?  All  right. 
Are  you  with  us,  Bolotov?" 

Though  Bolotov  did  not  know  whither  he  was  being 


96  IWhat  Never  Happened 

invited  by  Volodya  and  though  he  could  not  tell  what 
it  meant  to  make  terror  in  revolutionary  Moscow,  still 
he  accepted  the  invitation  unhesitatingly.  He  had  lost 
control  over  himself,  he  felt,  and  was  an  obedient  serv- 
ant to  Volodya.  Some  higher  immutable  will,  mastering 
alike  Volodya,  and  David,  and  Seriozha,  and  himself, 
was  forcing  him  to  something  terrible,  and  it  was  not 
in  his  power  to  refuse  to  submit  to  that  will.  The  sense 
of  not  belonging  to  himself,  but  of  being  a  plaything  in 
some  one  else's  hands,  was  disagreeable  to  him. 

The  winter  sky  was  darkening.  The  snow  crunched 
beneath  their  feet  as  they  came  out  into  the  Chisto- 
prudny  Park.  They  walked  by  twos,  and  because  they 
were  many  and  all  armed,  with  Volodya  leading,  and 
around  them  immense,  dark,  silent  Moscow  which  had 
risen  for  mortal  combat,  Bolotov  had  a  stimulating 
sensation  of  unspent  strength  and  of  approaching 
blessed  victory. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

IT  was  six  o 'clock  in  the  morning  and  still  dark  when 
Volodya  stopped  at  the  entrance  to  a  small  wooden 
house  on  Gruziny  Street.  "Here,"  he  whispered, 
and  finding  the  button  of  the  electric  bell,  he  pressed  it 
with  a  long,  lingering  ring.  His  comrades,  cross  and 
sleepy,  indistinguishable  in  the  darkness,  stood  close  to- 
gether. The  air  was  frosty  and  the  bluish-dark  Decem- 
ber sky  starry  above  their  heads.  The  Big  Dipper  hung 
up  there  resplendent.  "Why  am  I  here,  with  them?" 
Bolotov  thought  in  sudden  alarm.  He  was  no  longer  ex- 
periencing that  radiant  feeling  which  had  possessed  him 
the  day  before.  It  even  seemed  to  him  that  Volodya 
was  doing  something  unnecessary,  wicked,  harmful. 
But  he  did  not  have  the  will-power  to  leave.  Behind 
the  glass  door,  in  the  hall,  a  light  appeared,  and  a  stout 
porter,  barefoot,  in  a  long,  soiled  dressing-gown  rattled 
a  bunch  of  keys. 

* '  Who 's  there  ? "  he  grumbled,  opening  the  door  care- 
fully and  gathering  the  gown  about  him.  Through  the 
lighted  window-panes,  Bolotov  clearly  saw  nearsighted 
eyes  searching  in  the  darkness,  a  swollen  sleepy  face,  and 
dishevelled  hair.  He  heard  Vanya  behind  him  saying 
in  a  low  voice : 

"God  sends  a  visitor  to  the  one  he  loves!" 
"Are  you  deaf?    Open  up!"  Volodya  shouted,  and 
one  of  the  revolutionists,  Konstantin,  a  red,  freckled 
youngster  of  about  nineteen,  pushed  the  door  with  his 

97 


98  What  Never  Happened 

shoulder.  The  door  gave  way  and  the  glass  broke  with 
a  crash.  The  porter  raised  his  hand.  But  Konstantin 
gave  the  man  no  opportunity  to  cry  out.  He  threw  his 
whole  weight  upon  him  and  seized  him  by  the  throat. 
Bolotov  saw  the  porter 's  white  scared  face  turn  blue  and 
swollen. 

"Bind  him!"  Volodya  ordered  abruptly.  "Konstan- 
tin and  Roman  Aleksieyevich,  remain  here.  Povaren- 
kov  and  Leizer — in  the  street.  Don't  admit  anybody! 
You  understand?  Nobody!  ^Whoever  rings — bind 
him!" 

Stooping  his  great  lithe  body  and  trying  not  to  make 
any  noise  with  his  boots,  he  ran  up  the  stairs  with  easy 
youthful  steps.  On  the  second  floor,  to  the  right,  there 
was  a  shield  on  the  door:  Yevgeny  Pavlovich  Sliozkin. 
Volodya  turned  to  his  party: 

"Look  here,"  he  said  in  a  half-whisper,  "you,  Vanya, 
you  go  to  the  kitchen  and  station  yourself  at  the  back 
entrance.    And,  take  care,  you  raven,  or  I'll  get  you!" 

Without  awaiting  an  answer,  he  rang  the  bell.  All 
was  silent.  In  the  stillness  the  breathing  of  many  peo- 
ple was  audible.  Bolotov  was  quite  certain  now  that 
they  were  doing  something  frightful  and  cruel.  Again 
he  felt  like  leaving  so  as  not  to  see  what  was  about  to 
take  place.  But  the  same  familiar  force  that  had  make 
him  happy  the  day  before  retained  him  now;  and  the 
consciousness  that  he  did  not  belong  to  himself,  that  he 
was  subordinate  to  somebody  else's  will,  that  he  was  a 
mute,  obedient  soldier,  was  not  only  unpleasant,  but 
even  shamed  and  frightened  him.  Not  David,  it  seemed, 
nor  Volodya,  nor  Vanya  had  decided  to  attack  this  locked 
house  in  the  night  like  thieves,  but  the  terror  organiza- 
tion, the  Party,  Moscow,  all  Russia.     They  had  no  right 


What  Never  Happened  99 

to  hold  back,  a  retreat  would  be  a  grave  disgrace,  un- 
pardonable treachery.  He  realized  he  would  not  leave, 
but  would  unhesitatingly,  without  protest,  do  everything 
Volodya  might  order  him  to  do. 

David,  who  was  already  shivering  in  the  street,  as 
though  in  a  fever,  looked  at  him  slantingly  and  sighed: 

"They  won't  open  the  door?     Eh?" 

Bolotov  shrugged  his  shoulders  nervously.  Down- 
stairs in  the  porter's  room  all  became  silent,  and  the 
lights  went  out.  Volodya  rang  again.  The  bell 
sounded  harshly  in  the  hall. 

"Whom  do  you  want?"  an  old  woman's  voice  asked 
from  behind  the  door. 

' '  From  the  general ! ' '  Volodj^a  answered  immediately. 

"From  the  general?" 

' '  Yes,  yes.     Very  important.     Open  the  door  quick ! ' ' 

The  key  creaked  in  the  lock.  The  door  opened,  and 
there  stood  an  old  woman,  a  nurse,  probably,  shrivelled 
and  unkempt,  in  a  white  nightgown.  She  raised  her 
head  trustingly,  when  she  saw  the  crowd  of  armed  men, 
she  crossed  herself,  and  opened  her  old  toothless  mouth 
and  bowed  and  swung  her  thin  braid,  and  moved  baek- 
w^ards  from  Volodya. 

Volodya  entered,  bringing  in  a  smell  of  the  frost,  with 
icicles  on  his  beard  and  brows.  He  hesitated  a  moment 
and  pushed  the  closed  door  lightly.  The  door  led  into 
a  dark,  stuffy  room,  evidently  the  living-room.  He 
searched  the  wall  with  his  fingers  and  switched  on  the 
electric  light.  Bolotov,  moved  by  the  same  inexplicable 
force,  followed  him  in. 

A  heavy  writing-table  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  room. 
In  the  right  corner,  under  a  simple  image,  on  a  broad 
leather  couch,  a  man  was  sleeping.    He  seemed  to  be 


100  What  Never  Happened 

about  forty  years  old.  He  had  black  hair,  sprinkled 
with  grey,  and  black  moustachios  curling  up  at  the  ends. 
He  must  have  heard  the  steps  in  his  sleep,  or  perhaps 
the  brightness  of  the  light  disturbed  him.  He  opened 
his  eyes  lazily  and  closed  them  again,  as  if  he  did  not  be- 
lieve what  he  saw,  or  thought  he  was  still  dreaming. 
But  in  another  instant,  as  if  somebody  had  struck  him 
on  the  head,  he  threw  off  the  cotton  quilt  with  a  quick 
motion  and  shoved  his  hand  under  the  pillow.  Volodya 
seized  him  by  the  shoulder. 

''I'll  ask  you  to  get  up." 

The  man  looked  silently  at  Volodya  with  darkened, 
frightened,  wicked  eyes  and  tried  to  free  his  arm.  He 
did  not  see  that  Vasily  Grigoryevich  was  aiming  his  re- 
volver at  him  and  that  right  at  his  very  ear,  David  was 
also  holding  his  shaking  revolver  to  his  head. 

''Mister  Sliozkin?"  Volodya  asked. 

"Yes,  Sliozkin,"  answered  the  man  haltingly,  in  a 
deep  baritone,  feeling  he  could  not  free  himself. 

"Colonel  of  gendarmes,  Yevgeny  Pavlovich  Slioz- 
kin?" 

' '  Yes,  Yevgeny  Pavlovich  Sliozkin.    Let  go  my  hand. ' ' 

Colonel  Sliozkin  put  one  of  his  bare  hairy  feet  on  to 
the  rug.  He  thought  a  while  and  put  his  other  foot 
down.  Sitting  like  that  on  the  couch,  with  his  bare  legs 
hangir^  down  and  with  nothing  but  a  short  shirt  on,  he 
asked  in  a  voice  husky  but  loud : 

"What  do  you  wish?" 

"You'll  find  out  at  the  proper  time." 

Sliozkin  began  to  dress.  It  was  all  like  a  dream  to 
Bolotov.  It  was  so  strange  to  see  those  bare  legs,  that 
bare  red  neck  with  its  protruding  Adam's  apple,  that 
middle-aged  man,  probably  married  and  with  a  family, 


What  Never  Happened  101 

dressing  and  surrounded  by  unknown,  hostile  people. 
"Exactly  like  gendarmes,"  Bolotov  thought.  Sliozkin 
could  not  put  on  his  high  patent-leather  boots  without 
his  servant's  help,  and  everybody  stood  there  in  awk-  . 
ward  silence  while  he  fumbled  with  them,  trying  to  pull  . 
them  on  and  making  the  spurs  click  together  and  beat- 
ing the  floor  with  his  heels.  At  last  he  got  on  his  blue 
trousers  and  boots,  and  sat  down  on  the  couch  again  and 
shrugged  his  shoulders  boyishly.  Spreading  his  hands 
helplessly,  he  sighed: 

''What  does  it  all  mean?" 

** Where's  your  revolver?"  Volodya  asked  severely. 

*'Eevolver?"  Sliozkin  passed  his  hand  over  his  fore- 
head.    ''The  revolver  is  under  the  pillow." 

**Take  a  seat  at  the  table." 

Sliozkin  did  not  move. 

*'I  want  you  to  sit  at  the  table." 

"At  the  table?  At  the  table?  No,  no,  I  don't  want 
to  sit  at  the  table,"  he  murmured  in  a  hardly  audible 
voice,  following  Volodya  with  his  eyes. 

**Mr.  Sliozkin." 

"No,  no!  For  God's  sake,  no,  I  won't  sit  at  the 
table." 

Bolotov  saw  David  put  his  revolver  to  Sliozkin 's 
temple.  He  saw  David's  fingers  tremble  and  red  spots 
appear  on  Sliozkin 's  nose  and  cheeks  and  his  jaw 
tremble.  David,  without  taking  his  revolver  away,  be- 
gan to  talk  rapidly,  stammering  and  swallowing  his 
words : 

"What  do  you  mean?  If  you're  told  to — I  mean  or- 
dered, then  you  must  sit  down,  when  you're  told  to — I 
mean  ordered." 

Volodya  made  a  grimace. 


102  What  Never  Happened 

"Mr.  Sliozkin." 

Sliozkin  got  up  and  moving  with  an  effort  sat  down  in 
a  low,  wicker  armchair.  As  he  sat  at  the  familiar  writ- 
ing-table, with  his  back  to  the  door,  and  saw  the  familiar 
objects  in  their  accepted  places,  always  the  same  places, 
the  black  morocco  portfolios,  the  ink-bottle,  the  paper- 
weight in  the  shape  of  a  horse-shoe,  he  suddenly  grew 
quiet  and  said,  trying  to  be  firm : 

"Well,  what  do  you  wish?" 

"You'll  find  out  at  the  proper  time." 

Volodya  moved  David's  revolver  away. 

"Look  here.  Colonel  Yevgeny  Pavlovich  Sliozkin,  I 
give  you  five  minutes'  time." 

Volodya  did  not  finish.  Sliozkin  looked  at  him  a  min- 
ute with  wide-open  eyes,  and  suddenly,  without  taking 
his  eyes  off  Volodya 's  face,  he  rose  slowly  from  the  chair 
and  began  to  move  backwards  to  the  door.  He  was  tall, 
straight,  and  white  as  a  sheet.  As  he  moved,  he  slowly 
raised  his  hands  as  if  begging  for  mercy;  and  when  he 
had  raised  them  to  the  level  of  his  shoulders,  he  covered 
his  face  with  them,  spreading  his  thick  fingers.  Then  Bo- 
lotov  heard  something  that  he  could  not  forget  for  long 
afterward.  The  memory  of  it  disturbed  many  a  night 
and  woke  him  up  in  a  cold  sweat.  He  heard  a  broken, 
wailing  sound.  It  was  impossible  to  believe  that  those 
whining  noises,  so  unlike  a  man's  voice,  were  coming 
from  the  throat  of  this  strong,  middle-aged  man  in  blue 
trousers  and  white  shirt.  Sliozkin  with  his  fingers  on 
his  face  and  his  eyes  still  fixed  on  Volodya  continued 
to  step  backward  with  the  same  continuous  whine,  to- 
wards the  corner,  as  if  there  lay  safety.  Bolotov  turned 
away. 

But  suddenly  another  unexpected  sound  came  from 


What  Never  Happened  103 

the  hall,  and  filled  the  low  rooms,  muffling  the  whine. 
It  was  the  shrill,  heart-breaking  cry  of  a  woman,  who 
pushed  past  the  men  and  threw  herself  upon  them. 
She  was  stout,  but  had  a  sickly  complexion,  and  she  must 
have  just  got  out  of  bed,  for  her  hair  was  in  curling- 
papers.  She  did  not  seem  to  understand  what  she  was 
doing.  She  only  knew  that  her  husband  was  to  die ;  and 
with  a  continuous  cry  she  threw  herself  on  her  knees, 
and  clasped  Volodya's  legs,  then  Seriozha's,  and  then 
Bolotov's  and  kissed  their  boots.  And  while  kissing  and 
choking  with  tears,  she  repeated  one  meaningless  word: 

''Help!    Help!    Help!" 

Bolotov  saw  Vasily  Grigoryevich  bury  his  face  in  the 
window  curtain  and  David  throw  his  revolver  away  and 
run  out  with  his  face  in  his  hands.  Volodya,  pale  with 
anger,  went  up  to  the  woman  resolutely.  He  picked  her 
up  like  a  child  and  began  to  mutter  glumly: 

"Calm  yourself,  madam,  calm  yourself." 

The  woman  continued  to  wail.  Her  soft  fat  body  in 
a  long  nightgown  trembled.  Freeing  herself  from  Vo- 
lodya's firm  hold,  she  kept  on  uttering  the  same  de- 
spairing cry,  as  if  she  had  forgotten  all  other  words : 

''Help!     Help!     Help!     Help!" 

Bolotov  could  not  remain  silent  any  longer  and  was 
on  the  verge  of  bursting  into  a  sob.  Fearing  to  show 
tears,  he  turned  to  Volodya: 

"Spare  him!" 

Volodya  did  not  answer.  Holding  the  woman  fast 
in  his  arms  and  stopping  her  mouth  with  a  handkerchief, 
he  stepped  out  into  the  hall  rapidly  and  firmly. 

"They  let  her  get  by!"  he  said  between  his  teeth. 
"Ravens!" 

Sliozkin  was  now  standing  in  the  left  corner,  near  the 


104  What  Never  Happened 

door,  speechless  and  motiouless,  with  his  back  pressed 
against  the  wall.  He  kept  his  dry,  brilliant,  unnatu- 
rally wide-open  eyes  on  Volodya  uneasily,  without  miss- 
ing a  single  step  of  his,  a  single  motion  of  his  big  hands. 
Volodya  returned,  locked  the  door,  looked  at  him  with  a 
fixed  attentive  gaze,  and  said  in  a  loud,  clear  voice: 

"Well,  Mister  Sliozkin,  by  the  decision  of  the  Moscow 
terrorist  organization  you  have  been  sentenced  to  death 
by  hanging."  He  added  in  a  lower  voice:  "Hey, 
whoa,  there !    A  rope  here ! ' ' 

No  one  moved.  Volodya  frowned.  Bolotov,  feeling 
his  legs  were  trembling  beneath  his  knees,  came  over  to 
him  again: 

"Vladimir  Ivanovich!" 

"What  is  it?" 

* '  Vladimir  Ivanovich ! ' ' 

"Well?" 

"Spare  him,  Vladimir  Ivanovich." 

"What!  The  colonel  of  gendarmes,  Sliozkin?  Spare 
him?  Ah,  you!  Then  what  was  all  this  child's  play 
for?    What  for?     Faugh!" 

"Spare  him,  Vladimir  Ivanovich." 

Sliozkin  did  not  move,  as  if  Bolotov  were  not  plead- 
ing for  him.  He  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  Volodya.  Vo- 
lodya's  face  twitched.  Under  the  heavy  black  beard, 
his  right  cheek,  near  his  tight-set  lips,  began  to  tremble 
convulsively,  and  without  looking  at  Bolotov,  he  shouted 
hoarsely : 

"  Go  to  the  devil !    All  of  you ! " 

Bolotov  left  the  room,  without  being  conscious  of  what 
he  was  doing.  The  hall  was  empty,  save  for  a  working- 
man  at  the  entrance  door,  whom  Bolotov  did  not  know. 
He  stood  on  watch  with  an  expressionless  face,  a  revolver 


"What  Never  Happened  105 

in  liis  hand.  When  Bolotov  caught  the  indifferent,  al- 
most bored  look  in  the  man 's  eyes,  he  felt  stifled,  and  was 
certain  now  that  Sliozkin  would  surely  be  killed,  and 
no  power  could  save  his  life.  "They  won't  be  nice 
to  us,  they'll  take  us  in  broad  daj-light."  He  sud- 
denly recalled  Volodya's  words.  "And,  really,  what 
VKis  all  the  child's  play  for?  Sliozkin  is  a  scoundrel; 
he  has  had  dozens  of  people  hanged,  he  has  no  con- 
science, he's  like  a  beast,"  Bolotov  thought  in  an  at- 
tempt at  justification,  though  that  w^as  as  far  as  he  could 
go.  Somebody  was  sobbing  in  a  comer.  It  was  David, 
by  the  hall-rack,  half -hidden  by  a  gendarme's  uniform. 
The  workman  on  watch  looked  at  him,  his  lips  curling  in 
contempt. 

In  Sliozkin 's  room  only  Seriozha  and  Volodya  were 
left.  "When  Bolotov  had  gone  out,  he  had  touched  Vo- 
lodya's arm  and  said  softly: 

"Leave  him  alone,  Vladimir  Ivanovich." 

Volodya  was  lost  in  thought.  "With  head  bent  and 
legs  stretched  wide  apart  he  thought  a  moment.  Seri- 
ozha closed  his  eyes.  Suddenly  Volodya  raised  his 
head: 

"Cowards!  They're  all  cowards!"  he  muttered  and, 
trying  to  avoid  Sliozkin 's  gaze,  -with  a  quick  motion,  he 
pulled  out  his  small  revolver  and,  setting  his  teeth,  al- 
most without  taking  aim,  he  sent  a  shot  into  the  corner. 
The  room  filled  with  smoke.  On  the  rug  against  the 
wall,  with  his  head  thrown  back,  lay  Sliozkin  mortally 
wounded. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

DAY  had  already  dawned  when  David  came  out 
into  the  street.  It  was  miserable  weather. 
Dark  clouds  were  hanging  low  over  the  city, 
over  the  white  roofs  and  bare  factory  chimneys.  The 
snow  was  not  crisp,  but  fell  in  wet  flakes  and  clung  damp 
to  one's  clothes.  Head  down,  shrinking  into  his  light 
overcoat,  David  walked  rapidly  and  aimlessly  along  the 
park  towards  Zamoskvoriechie  Street.  The  Raush  Quay 
was  deserted,  as  if  all  Moscow  had  died  out.  On  the  other 
side  of  the  river,  beyond  the  Kamenny  Bridge,  the  spires 
of  the  Kremlin  showed  dimly  through  the  falling 
snow.  After  the  sleepless  night  in  the  hall  in  the  gen- 
darme's house,  after  the  sobs,  cries  and  haste,  after  the 
orders  of  Volodya,  this  lazy  stillness  seemed  new  and 
unexpectedly  strange.  And  so  did  the  wet  snow,  which 
fell  on  his  cold  neck,  and  the  lowering  sky,  and  the  dim 
cupola  of  Christ  the  Saviour.  But  strangest  and  most 
unexpected  of  all  was  the  indifference  of  passers-bj'. 
Nobody  knew,  and  perhaps  nobody  cared  to  know,  that 
something  terrible  had  happened,  that  a  man  had  been 
killed,  Yevgeny  Pavlovich  Sliozkin,  and  that  he  had  been 
killed  by  him,  by  David. 

On  Balchuga  Street,  near  the  only  shop  whose  doors 
were  open,  some  trucks  stood  carrying  flour,  covered 
with  matting  and  stretching  across  the  whole  street.  The 
well-fed  horses,  heavy  draught  animals,  stood  in  the  deep 
snow,  the  drivers  nearby,  their  heads  down  like  the 
horses,  just  as  frozen  and  snow-laden,  waiting  for  the 

106 


What  Never  Happened  107 

next  one  to  pass  into  the  yard.  One  of  the  trucks  had 
got  stuck  at  the  gates,  and  the  shop  clerks  in  linen  aprons 
were  pushing  it,  cursing  as  they  worked.  On  the  dirty, 
trodden  threshold  stood  the  red-bearded  proprietor,  also 
cursing  as  he  looked  at  the  clerks.  David  stopped  in 
front  of  the  shop,  and  observed  with  mechanical  curi- 
osity the  monotonous  row  of  loaded  trucks,  the  snow- 
covered  men,  the  cursing  red-bearded  merchant,  as  if 
it  were  really  important  for  him  to  know  when  the  sledge 
would  be  pushed  into  the  yard.  And  even  after  the 
sleigh  at  length  disappeared  creaking  beyond  the  gates 
and  the  whole  train  of  wagons  started  after  it,  and  the 
clerks  re-entered  the  shop,  David  remained  standing  mo- 
tionless for  some  time,  gazing  in  the  same  mechanical 
way  at  the  deserted  street  and  the  iron  locks  on  the 
shops.  The  cold  brought  him  to  himself.  His  face  was 
wet,  his  hands  red,  stiff,  aching  intolerably  from  the  frost. 
He  thrust  them  deep  into  his  pockets,  put  up  his  coat 
collar,  and  crossed  the  Kamenny  Bridge  rapidly.  On 
Volkhonka  Street,  he  stumbled  on  a  barrel  covered  with 
snow — it  was  part  of  a  complete  ice-covered  barricade, 
left  by  a  terrorist  band — and  he  nearly  fell  over  it. 
Rubbing  his  hurt  knee,  he  turned  into  a  side  street,  but 
around  the  corner  he  saw  another  barricade  and  a  red 
banner  fluttering  over  it.  Somebody  from  behind  the 
barricade  called  him. 

David  glanced  at  the  flag  and,  with  a  wave  of  his  hand, 
turned  on  his  heels  and  walked  back  to  the  Borovichy 
Gates.  A  young  terrorist,  the  light  of  battle  in  his  eyes, 
with  a  driver's  belt  on,  ran  after  and  overtook  him. 
His  breath  was  on  David's  cheek,  he  looked  straight  into 
his  face.  David  stopped  and  flushed  and  began  to  stam- 
mer, his  eyes  full  of  tears: 


108  What  Never  Happened 

"What  do  you  want?  Last  night — the  head  of  the 
gendarme  force — was  killed — " 

Feeling  that  he  was  beginning  to  sob  and  making  an 
effort  to  restrain  himself,  he  shouted  in  a  shrill  falsetto : 

"And  I  killed  him!" 

Then  he  took  off  his  student's  cap  and  ran  off  to  the 
Kremlin  without  looking  back.  The  young  workman 
shiiigged  his  shoulders  in  perplexity,  spit,  and  went 
slowly  back  to  the  barricade. 

The  snow  still  laid  a  sheet  over  the  world.  All  the 
walks  in  Alexsandrovsky  Park  were  covered  with  a  white 
carpet.  David  sat  down  on  a  bench  and  with  the  same 
mechanical  curiosity  with  which  he  had  looked  at  the 
trucks  he  regarded  the  flying  snowflakes.  They  fell 
silently  on  his  shoulders,  hands  and  knees  and  when  they 
made  a  big  heap,  he  would  brush  them  off  carefully  with 
one  finger.  He  was  unaware  of  how  long  he  remained 
there.  He  felt  cold.  A  great  while  passed.  He 
thought  of  nothing,  neither  of  Sliozkin,  nor  of  the  up- 
rising, nor  of  Volodya.  He  saw  the  snowflakes,  the  stone 
wall  of  the  Kremlin,  and  counted  the  strokes  of  the  clock 
on  the  Tainitzky  Tower  in  feverish  self-oblivion.  But 
suddenly  with  the  same  merciless  dreaminess  as  the  night 
before,  he  heard  the  shrill  wail,  the  very  wail.  Though 
he  had  actually  heard  it,  he  could  not  believe  in  it. 
"A-a-a-a!"  he  bellowed  and  raised  his  hands  to  his  head. 
"A-a-a-a-a!"  he  cried  again  and  again,  pressing  his  tem- 
ples till  they  ached.  His  cap  fell  into  the  snow.  He  did 
not  pick  it  up.  He  could  clearly  see  the  darkened,  un- 
blinking, wide-opened  eyes.  He  got  up,  with  his  head  in 
his  hands,  his  wet  coat  unbuttoned  and  wandered  on  hat- 
less  to  Arbatsky  Plaza.  On  the  plaza  were  scattered 
the  remains  of  a  barricade.     A  bonfire  was  crackling  in 


.What  Never  Happened  109 

one  corner,  and  men  in  dark  uniforms  were  warming 
themselves  about  it.  There  were  many  of  them,  and 
David  was  feeling  cold  again.  Without  grasping  the  sit- 
uation he  advanced  straight  towards  the  fire. 

"Who  goes  there?"  he  heard  a  hoarse  cry.  He  did 
not  understand  and  simply  quickened  his  pace;  but 
something  sharp  and  hard  stood  in  his  way.  A  soldier 
of  slight  build,  with  a  hood  over  his  ears  and  in  awk- 
ward-looking, snow-covered  boots,  confronted  him.  He 
held  his  rifle  in  a  menacing  position,  looked  at  David 
closely,  straightened  up  as  though  on  parade,  and  said 
in  a  monotonous  tone : 

"I  caught  a  Jew,  your  excellency." 

A  few  men,  dressed  in  the  same  kind  of  hoods  and  in 
grey  uniforms,  surrounded  David.  They  all  had  rifles 
in  their  hands  and  all  looked  at  him  with  open  antago- 
nism. A  young  officer,  with  a  pale  frowning  counte- 
nance and  a  birthmark  on  his  cheek,  came  up  and  also 
looked  David  over  from  head  to  foot  in  a  hostile  man- 
ner.    The  soldier  repeated  gaily: 

"A  Jew,  your  excellency." 

' '  Search  him ! ' '  said  the  officer  with  a  grimace  of  dis- 
gust. 

David  felt  strange,  coarse  hands  begin  to  grope  over 
his  body,  his  back  and  chest  and  under  his  arm-pits. 
Their  touch  made  him  colder.  He  huddled  and  hid  his 
face  in  his  collar. 

"A  revolver,  your  excellency." 

David  was  not  conscious  of  what  was  going  on.  He 
could  still  hear  the  hare's  wail,  and  it  interfered  with 
his  thoughts.  But  somehow  he  was  convinced  that  the 
search  was  a  misunderstanding,  and  the  misunderstand- 
ing would  be  cleared  up  and  he  would  be  released.    He 


110  What  Never  Happened 

could  not  believe  that  he,  David,  who  had  just  now  been 
a  free  man,  who  could  walk  freely  about  Moscow  and  go 
freely  to  St.  Petersburg  or  across  the  border,  should  be 
suddenly  detained  by  unknown  men  here,  on  Arbata 
Street,  and  these  men  should  have  the  right  to  do  with 
him  as  they  pleased.  It  was  so  absurd  and  unthinkable 
that  he  felt  no  fear  or  apprehension  and  watched  the 
hands  searching  his  body  indifferently.  One  of  the  sol- 
diers, of  a  minor  rank,  with  black  moustachios,  pushed 
him  slightly  with  the  butt-end  of  his  gun : 

"Well,  move  along!     March!" 

Four  armed  men  with  expressionless  faces,  like  the 
terrorist's  who  had  kept  watch  in  Sliozkin's  hall,  led 
him  along  Arbata  Street.  He  followed  obediently,  swing- 
ing his  arms  as  usual.  Suddenly  he  noticed  he  had  lost 
his  hat.  His  flaxen  hair  was  getting  wet.  It  occurred  to 
him  he  might  easily  catch  cold  and  strained  his  weakened 
memory  in  vain  to  recall  where  he  had  lost  it.  It  was 
not  until  the  soldiers  stopped  near  a  dirty-looking  gov- 
ernment building  in  an  unfamiliar  alley  that  he  realized 
he  was  being  taken  to  a  police  station.  At  the  door  of 
the  first  room,  which  was  cold  and  had  the  smell  of 
barracks  about  it,  stood  two  sentries ;  and  an  old  police- 
inspector  with  silver  medals  on  his  chest  lay  dozing  on 
a  bench.  While  he  went  to  make  his  report,  David 
looked  idly  about  the  room.  A  black  pool  of  melting 
snow  was  forming  at  his  feet. 

The  inspector  returned  in  a  minute.  Again  somebody 
pushed  David  along  by  the  shoulder.  In  a  big  light 
room  with  white-washed  windows,  at  an  official  red 
table,  under  a  portrait  of  the  Czar,  sat  two  officers  in  the 
uniforms  of  the  Hussars.  One  of  them,  an  old  wrinkled 
colonel  with  long  grey  moustachios,  was  writing.    The 


What  Never  Happened  111 

other,  somewhat  younger,  with  the  shoulder  knots  of  an 
adjutant,  was  looking  over  some  pink  papers.  David 
stood  near  the  door  with  the  inspector  at  hi^  side.  The 
room  was  warm.  To  the  left  a  fir  log  was  burning  in 
the  stove,  and  to  his  pleasure  he  felt  his  wet,  numbed 
fingers  beginning  to  thaw  out.  A  long  time  passed 
before  the  colonel  raised  his  head  and  looked  at  him,  his 
ej'es  blinking  wearily.  The  adjutant  bent  over  respect- 
fully and  whispered  something  in  his  ears. 

"Yes,  yes, — of  course,  of  course,"  said  the  colonel, 
without  looking  at  the  adjutant.  Turning  to  David  he 
asked  sternly  in  a  commanding  bass  voice : 

"Is  that  your  revolver?" 

David  did  not  answer. 

"Did  you  shoot  with  it?"  said  the  colonel  and  laid 
his  white  hand  with  rings  on  the  revolver.  "Your 
name.     Answer  when  you're  spoken  to." 

But  David  could  not  have  answered  even  had  he 
wished  to.  Suddenly  with  merciless  certainty,  with  that 
unshakable  sureness  which  admits  of  no  doubt,  he  real- 
ized he  would  not  be  released,  and  his  being  there  was 
due  to  no  misunderstanding.  To  the  colonel,  to  the 
adjutant,  to  the  soldier  who  had  arrested  him,  to  the 
police-inspector  who  had  been  sleeping  so  peacefully  on 
the  bench,  to  those  naked  barrack-walls,  he  felt  he  was 
not  a  living  man,  not  David  Cohn,  with  his  beautiful, 
immortal  soul,  but  a  soulless  number,  a  nobody,  one  of 
those  nameless  persons  who  were  being  arrested  and 
hanged  or  exiled  to  Siberia  by  the  dozens.  The  colonel, 
he  now  fully  realized,  could  not  understand,  would  not 
care  about  it  if  he  could,  that  it  was  not  David's  fault 
that  Moscow  was  in  revolt,  and  there  was  fighting  on  the 
barricades  and  Gendarme  Sliozkin  had  been  killed.    He 


112  What  Never  Happened 

foresaw  he  should  be  tried  and  sentenced  on  the  basis 
of  the  coincidence — of  lying  and  insignificant  trifles, 
lie  recalled  that  he  had  fired  shots  on  Miasnitzka  Street 
and  it  was  impossible  to  conceal  it,  because  the  revolver 
was  blackened  and  five  bullets  were  missing.  The  next 
second  his  whole  weak,  numbed,  tired  body  awoke  to  the 
comprehension  that  soon,  in  a  few  moments,  something 
terrible  would  take  place  in  that  police  station,  some- 
thing that  had  never  happened  to  him  before,  that  ought 
not,  should  not  happen,  that  would  be  even  more  terrible 
than  the  wail  and  the  death  of  Sliozkin.  An  uncon- 
trollable trembling  shook  him  now  and  grew  more  violent 
from  moment  to  moment.  He  tried  to  check  it,  but  his 
teeth  would  not  obey  his  will  and  chattered  violently, 
his  jaw  trembled  and  his  fingers  quivered  on  his  breast. 
The  adjutant  leaned  over  to  the  colonel  again,  the  colonel 
again  looked  at  David,  and  motioned  silently. 

David  had  only  a  confused  idea  of  what  happened 
after  that.  All  he  was  anxious  about  now  was  to  stop 
that  disgusting,  cowardly  trembling.  As  if  in  a  dream, 
he  saw  he  was  in  the  hall  again  and  realized  he  was 
being  taken  out  into  the  yard.  He  saw  the  snowflakes, 
the  grey  uniforms,  the  cracked  yellow  wall  and  the 
shaven  face  of  the  adjutant.  Something  dry  and  hot 
stuck  in  his  throat.  He  swayed,  but  somebody  sup- 
ported him  carefully.  He  came  to  himself  when  he 
stood  at  the  wall  with  his  hands  tied.  , About  ten  yards 
in  front  of  him  he  could  see  a  dark  indistinguishable 
mass.  He  knew  it  was  made  up  of  soldiers.  To  their 
right  stood  the  officer  stooping.  And  as  in  a  lightning 
flash  it  came  to  David  that  the  snow,  the  rifles,  the  patch 
of  grey  sky,  the  shaven  adjutant  with  the  stern  face,  all 
that  was  the  unknown  thing  called  death  of  which  he 


What  Never  Happened  113 

had  been  afraid  his  whole  life.  The  trembling  stopped 
at  once.  He  raised  his  head,  but  lowered  it  again  im- 
mediately. The  snow  tickled  his  cheeks  and  fell  into 
his  eyes.  He  saw  nothing  more.  A  yellowish  flame 
leapt  out.  On  the  spot  where  David  had  just  stood 
against  the  wall  a  pitiful,  shrivelled  superfluous  body  lay 
huddled  up  helplessly.     The  snow  fell  unceasingly. 


CHAPTER  XV 

FOR  many  days  fighting  had  been  going  on  in  the 
streets  of  Moscow,  and  the  issue  was  doubtful. 
Neither  of  the  opposing  armies — neither  the  gov- 
ernment nor  the  revolutionists — dared  to  make  direct 
attack  in  the  open.  Those  few  hundred  Moscow  work- 
men, clerks  and  students  who  had  been  erecting  barri- 
cades, were  not  strong  enough  to  take  the  Kremlin,  nor 
to  force  the  army  to  lay  down  their  arms.  On  the  other 
hand  the  few  regiments  whom  the  Government  could 
trust  were  quelling  the  uprising  slowly  and  unwillingly, 
as  if  they  were  performing  some  necessary  but  burden- 
some duty.  The  industrial  and  business  part  of  Mos- 
cow, the  Moscow  of  the  bourse,  the  banks,  the  ware- 
houses and  shops,  the  million-peopled  city  of  merchants 
and  priests,  took  no  part  in  the  struggle.  It  was  wait- 
ing in  suspense  to  see  which  side  would  win  and  thus 
gain  authority.  The  soldiers  kept  on  destroying  and 
burning  the  barricades  abandoned  by  the  terrorists; 
but  when  the  shooting  began  again  they  would  return  in 
disorder  to  their  barracks.  In  the  place  of  the  barri- 
cades that  were  destroyed,  the  terrorists  would  set  up 
new  ones  and  then  abandon  them  light-heartedly  when 
they  saw  that  their  forces  were  outnumbered.  Towards 
the  end  of  the  week  rumours  spread  over  Moscow  that 
the  Czar's  guard  was  coming  from  St.  Petersburg  over 
the  Nikolayevsky  railway,  which  had  not  been  affected  by 
the  strike.    The  isolated,  impotent,  irresolute  uprising, 

114 


What  Never  Happened  115 

it  was  now  clear,  would  come  to  an  end  as  suddenly  as 
it  had  started. 

But  neither  the  terrorists,  who  were  giving  up  their 
lives  at  the  barricades,  nor  the  officials  and  merchants 
who  were  hiding  in  fear,  nor  those  ministers  who  were 
dispatching  the  Semyonov  regiment,  nor  the  members 
of  the  regiment  themselves,  foresaw  this  end.  All  Mos- 
cow, all  Russia,  it  seemed  to  them,  was  up  in  arms,  and 
only  by  the  extremest  measures,  and  at  the  cost  of  num- 
berless victims  could  the  raging  conflagration,  the  great 
victorious  Russian  revolution,  be  extinguished. 

Bolotov  thought  so  too.  He  had  been  fighting  un- 
ceasingly for  two  weeks.  Not  attacking,  but  on  the 
other  hand  not  making  any  attempt  to  avoid  skirmishes 
with  the  army,  Volodya's  squad  was  slowly  circling  the 
city  along  Sadovaya  Street,  from  Chistiye  Prudy  Street, 
across  Srietenka,  Drachevka  and  Samoteka  Streets, 
towards  Priesna  Street.  The  squad  was  naturally  giving 
way,  as  a  beast  does  before  a  hunter,  before  the  strong 
soldiery,  towards  that  part  of  Moscow  which  was  en- 
tirely in  the  hands  of  the  revolutionists.  Abandoned 
barricades  that  had  been  demolished  by  the  Cossacks 
were  immediately  built  up  again  by  the  others. 
The  squad  kept  moving  about  Moscow  without  any 
preconceived  plan,  now  drawing  near  to  the  Kremlin 
and  giving  battle  at  the  walls  of  the  Strastny  Mon- 
astery, now  receding  into  the  remotest  parts  of  the 
city.  The  number  of  terrorists  had  grown  during  these 
days ;  but  it  was  not  that  spontaneous,  powerful  growth 
which  signifies  a  popular  revolution.  Volodj^a  had  now 
about  thirty  men,  almost  all  of  them  factory  workers. 
Among  this  armed  mob  was  Brizgalov's  porter,  Pronka, 
who  had  joined  them  on  the  first  day  of  the  upris- 


116  What  Never  Happened 

ing.  This  Pronka,  a  lively  chap  with  a  broad  face 
and  enormous  hairy  paws,  hardly  understood  who  was 
fighting  and  why.  Had  Bolotov  spoken  to  him  about  a 
republic,  about  a  constitutional  assembly  or  Socialism, 
he  would  have  scratched  his  head  and  answered  with 
a  silly  smile  that  it  was  not  his  affair,  but  the  affair  of 
the  aristocracy  and  they  ought  to  know  what  was  good. 
But  as  soon  as  he  joined  the  terrorists  he  could  not  leave 
them  again.  He  saw  they  were  killing  government  of- 
ficials, and  since  all  officials,  from  the  minister  down  to 
the  policeman,  were  treacherous,  unnatural  creatures, 
he  decided  they  were  doing  a  good,  useful  thing.  Be- 
sides, it  was  so  unusual,  hence  so  entertaining — "amus- 
ing," as  he  said — to  walk  about  the  deserted  streets  of 
Moscow  with  a  revolver,  tear  down  fences,  upset  trolley 
cars,  chop  down  posts  and  trees,  hunt  Cossacks  and  bring 
terror  with  his  long-bored  revolver  to  the  weak-hearted 
wuves  of  the  merchants  of  Khamovnik,  Lefortov  and 
Pliushchikh  Streets.  In  the  beginning  the  terrorists 
looked  at  him  distrustfully,  as  at  a  stranger,  a  carnal 
man.  But  once  Pronka,  by  order  of  Volodya,  undertook 
to  slip  by  the  army  lines  to  Tverskaya  Street  and  suc- 
ceeded in  getting  and  bringing  back  five  hundred  rubles 
from  the  committee;  and  after  that  he  came  to  be  con- 
sidered a  comrade,  a  full-fledged  member  of  the  organi- 
zation. 

"When  the  rumour  spread  that  the  guard  had  been  sent 
from  St.  Petersburg  to  IMoscow,  none  but  Volodya  un- 
derstood the  full  import  of  the  situation.  He  grasped 
that  the  uprising  would  be  crushed,  the  Semyonov  regi- 
ment would  sweep  the  unstable  timid  barricades  before 
them  without  the  slightest  difficulty ;  and  the  cheap  vic- 
tory would  be  a  mortal  blow  to  the  revolution.    So  he  de- 


What  Never  Happened  117 

eided  at  any  cost  to  prevent  the  Semyonov  regiment 
from  coming  to  Moscow.  The  only  way  to  do  this,  he 
resolved,  was  to  dynamite  the  railroad  tracks.  Without 
asking  anybody's  permission  or  advice  he  left  for  Tver 
with  that  in  view,  resigning  the  command  of  his  body  of 
men  to  Seriozha,  not  to  Bolotov. 

During  that  one  week  the  change  in  Bolotov  was  so 
great  that  Arseny  Ivanovich  would  surely  not  have 
recognized  him.  He  had  grown  thinner,  his  blue  eyes  had 
shrunk,  and  his  cheeks,  pale  and  unwashed,  were  cov- 
ered with  a  rough,  heavy  beard.  The  smart  winter  coat 
in  which  he  had  come  from  St.  Petersburg  had  been  torn 
to  pieces  the  very  first  day,  when  he  had  had  to  break 
down  Brizgalov's  fence,  carry  empty  barrels  on  his  back, 
and  cut  telephone  wires.  As  it  also  felt  heavy  and  un- 
comfortable he  discarded  it.  He  put  on,  instead, 
a  jacket  with  a  sash,  and  exchanged  his  shoes 
for  felt  boots.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he 
knew,  not  from  talk  or  books,  what  an  uprising,  bar- 
ricades, murder,  death  meant.  To  his  surprise  he  saw 
it  was  all  much  simpler,  plainer,  easier  than  the  novels 
made  it  appear  to  be.  But  it  was  also  far  more  terrible. 
For  the  first  time  also  he  experienced  what  are  usually 
termed  privations  and  what  had  always  seemed  oppress- 
ive and  unbearable  to  him.  He  got  at  first  hand  an  idea 
of  what  it  means  to  go  without  food  for  two  whole  days, 
without  a  bath,  to  sleep  in  one's  clothes  somewhere  in  a 
cold,  uninhabitable  shed.  But  the  unfamiliar  sensations 
of  cold,  hunger,  and  uncleanliness  of  body  did  not  em- 
barrass him.  On  the  contrarj'-  it  was  agreeable.  With 
childish  pride  he  looked  at  his  cut,  calloused  hands, 
happy  in  the  thought  that  he  was  like  the  rest  of  them, 
like  Vanya,  Konstantin,  or  Pronka,  and  he  could  per- 


118  "What  Never  Happened 

form  any  labour,  no  matter  how  common — chop  wood, 
fetch  water  for  the  barricades  in  the  frosty  weather  or 
fan  to  life  a  fire  going  out  in  the  wind.  It  delighted  him 
that  the  men  were  gradually  becoming  accustomed  to 
him  and  ceased  to  look  upon  him  as  a  gentleman,  a  mem- 
ber of  the  mysterious  committee,  a  possessor  of  white 
hands,  which  knew  nothing  of  labour.  He  tried  to 
strengthen  this  comradeship,  not  the  artificial  comrade- 
ship of  a  propagandist  with  his  disciples,  nor  the  super- 
ficial, meaningless  attachment  that  is  born  of  a  secret 
perusal  of  pamphlets  and  talks  on  "the  condition  of 
the  working  class,"  ''autocracy,"  or  the  "Erfiirter 
Programm."  In  workingmen's  circles,  among  half  illit- 
erate factory  hands,  he  had  always  felt  himself  to  be  an 
intruder,  an  unwanted  pedant,  not  a  comrade  or  friend. 
But  here,  at  the  Moscow  barricades,  where  all  did  their 
share  of  hard  labour  alike,  where  all  were  freezing  alike, 
hungry  and  exposed  to  danger  alike,  the  insulting  bor- 
derline was  wiping  itself  out.  Unknown  to  himself 
Bolotov  had  become  an  inseparable  part  of  the  work- 
ingmen's troop,  as  valuable  as  any  other  member. 

In  the  first  naive  days  of  the  barricade  he  had  be- 
lieved sincerely  that  the  time  would  come  when  he,  the 
experienced  revolutionist,  would  lead  the  people.  But 
as  the  uprising  grew,  his  dreams  of  self-reliance  turned 
more  and  more  insignificant.  He  came  to  see  that  there 
was  no  government  in  Moscow ;  and  should  Volodya  die, 
the  barricades  would  not  be  abandoned,  nor  would  the 
bitter  civil  war  that  Volodya  had  proclaimed  end  ab- 
ruptly. He  came  to  see  that  to  "lead  the  people"  was 
ridiculous  and  unnecessary,  a  fit  subject  for  discussion 
in  committees,  but  here,  where  streets  were  full  of  fight- 
ing, such  thoughts  were  futile  and  meaningless.    No 


What  Never  Happened  119 

words,  he  now  realized  with  full  force,  could  make  people 
kill  if  they  did  not  want  to  kill  and  no  authority  could 
prevent  a  man,  once  his  mind  was  made  up,  from  sac- 
rificing his  life.  Three  of  the  troopers  attracted  him. 
Vasily  Grigoryevich,  a  pharmacist  whom  he  pitied  for  his 
narrow  shoulders,  weak  arms,  the  earthly  pallor  of  his 
sunken  cheeks  and  his  impersonal  obedience,  not  only  to 
Volodya,  but  to  eveiy  one  of  the  comrades,  even  Pronka. 
The  locksmith  Konstantin,  a  lad  of  nineteen,  freckled 
and  curly-haired,  who  surprised  him  by  his  bold,  truly 
Russian  audacity,  and  Roman  Aleksieyevich,  a  middle- 
aged  man  who  spoke  and  shot  very  seldom  but  when  he 
did  shoot,  placed  his  bullets  where  not  one  was  lost. 
Pronka  annoyed  him  because  he  could  not  shoot.  In 
a  retreat  Roman  Aleksieyevich  was  sure  to  be  the  last 
to  leave  the  barricade,  and,  no  matter  how  strong  the 
fire,  he  never  forgot  to  take  the  flag  along. 

Bolotov  could  not  have  explained  why  he  had  not  left 
Yolodya  after  the  killing  of  Sliozkin,  but  he  knew  he  had 
acted  wisely,  and  it  would  have  been  mean  and  wrong 
in  him  to  leave  the  fighting  squad.  That  same  affinity  of 
blood  which  he  had  felt  at  the  first  barricade,  binding 
him  not  only  to  Volodya  but  to  all  revolutionary  IMos- 
cow,  that  force  which  had  brought  him  to  Sliozkin 's 
house,  that  feeling  of  responsibility  which  had  possessed 
him  that  night,  all  prompted  him  to  remain,  yet  he 
could  not  explain  his  own  resolve,  or  penetrate  its  hidden 
motive. 

On  Saturday,  December  the  ninth,  the  men  under 
Seriozha's  command  abandoned  the  barricades  on  Miiisy 
Street,  retreated  beyond  the  Presnensky  Ponds  and  occu- 
pied the  Deep  Upper  and  Lower  Predtechensky  Alleys. 
They  built  several  small  barricades  across  Prudovaya  and 


120  What  Never  Happened 

Presnenskaya  Streets.  Their  right  wing  was  at  the  ob- 
servatory, their  left  at  the  Church  of  Johann  Predtecha. 
In  the  rear  they  fortified  a  two-story  school-house,  bar- 
ricaded all  the  windows  and  doors  and  posted  sentries. 
The  barricades  they  had  abandoned  on  ]\Iiiisy  Street  were 
immediately  occupied  by  a  neighbouring  band  of  stu- 
dents from  the  Institute  and  the  University.  Sounds  of 
occasional  revolver  shots  came  from  that  direction. 

"Gee,  the  gentlemen  students  are  firing  away!" 
Pronka  winked  with  one  eye  and  laughed. 

"Look  out!  You're  endangering  your  own  com- 
rades the  way  you're  waving  your  pitchfork,"  said 
Konstantin  sternly,  climbing  up  the  barricades  and 
fastening  the  red  banner,  which  waved  and  fluttered 
in  the  wind. 

The  day  was  cold  and  cloudy.  The  snow  rose  in  a  dry- 
powder.  Konstantin  jumped  about  on  the  barricade  a 
while,  then  went  off  a  way  and  looked  at  the  steep,  slip- 
pery, ice-coated  bulwark  and  said  proudly: 

* '  Fine !    A  frog  is  not  afraid  of  the  cannons. ' ' 

About  fifty  paces  behind  the  barricades,  almost  at 
the  entrance  to  the  school-house,  the  men  had  made  a 
bonfire.  None  but  the  sentries  remained  at  the  bar- 
ricades. Pronka  walked  lazily  along  the  bulwark,  halt- 
ing every  few  minutes  to  cast  a  look  of  envv  at  the 
crackling  fire.  But  suddenly  he  became  all  attention, 
turned  his  face  to  Prudovaya  Street,  stood  still  a  few 
seconds,  and  then  shouted  gleefully: 

"The  little  Cossacks  are  coming!" 

Bolotov  had  become  accustomed  to  false  alarms,  yet  he 
jumped  up  and  ran  to  the  barricades,  taking  out  his 
loaded  revolver  as  he  ran.  Pronka  was  down  on  the 
ground  already,  standing  on  tiptoe  and  holding  on  to  the 


.What  Never  Happened  121 

bulwark  with  one  hand,  with  the  other  pointing  some- 
thing out  to  Seriozha.  On  Koniushkovskaya  Street,  be- 
yond the  Presnensky  Ponds,  one  could  distinctly  see 
the  horse-mounted  dragoons  with  their  dark-brown  uni- 
forms and  their  rifles.  Bolotov  began  to  count.  The 
dragoons  were  circling  the  ponds  in  rows  of  three  and 
were  heading  for  the  observatory  at  an  even  trot.  Bo- 
lotov counted  ninety-six  men. 

"Positively  less  than  two  hundred  j^ards,"  remarked 
Vanya.     *'It  would  be  nice  to  take  a  shot  at  them." 

*'Let  them  come  nearer,"  Roman  Aleksieyevich  re- 
plied nervously  and  coughed  in  his  dry,  consumptive 
way. 

"There,  look,  look!  The  high  and  mighty  mister  of- 
ficer!" Pronka  laughed  again,  pointing  his  finger  at 
the  mounted  officer,  who  had  left  his  men  and  was  en- 
tering the  street  on  his  black  horse.  ' '  Ah,  the  devil  take 
him,  how  bold  he  is!  Just  look  at  him,  Sergey  Vasily- 
evich !  Let  me  take  a  shot  at  him, ' '  he  said  to  Seriozha 
smiling. 

Seriozha  made  no  reply,  looking  attentively  at  the 
dragoons.  They  turned  the  ponds  and  began  to  form 
into  close  formation, 

Pronka  jerked  his  head  impatiently : 

"Sergey  Vasilyevich,  so  help  me  God,  it's  the  best 
chance." 

Bolotov  looked  over  Pronka 's  shoulder.  There  seemed 
not  a  moment  to  lose ;  the  very  time  to  fire,  he  thought, 
was  while  the  dragoons  were  dismounting.  He  was  al- 
ready accustomed  to  look  upon  armies  with  indifference 
and  await  their  attack  without  excitement.  He  had  al- 
ways been  sure  that  no  infantry  in  JMoscow  could  with- 
stand the  fire  from  a  barricade  and  no  officer  could  force 


122  WHat  Never  Happened 

his  soldiers  to  advance  to  certain  senseless  death.  Per- 
haps for  that  very  reason  the  hunter's  lust  had  awak- 
ened and  gi'own  in  him,  a  wolfish  feeling,  which  he  had 
never  known  and  of  which  he  was  secretly  ashamed. 
By  Pronka's  straining  face  and  sparkling  eyes,  and  by 
the  concentration  of  his  comrades  he  could  judge  that  the 
same  feeling  possessed  them  all,  that  they  were  all 
waiting  impatiently  for  Seriozha's  command  to  shoot 
and  all  hoped  to  kill  the  officer.  Bolotov  was  not  afraid 
for  himself.  That  he  could  be  wounded  or  killed  had 
never  even  occurred  to  him.  During  the  many  days  of 
the  uprising  they  had  lost  only  one  man,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  David,  and  that  because  he  had  gone  out  into 
the  street  and  begun  to  shoot  in  sight  of  the  soldiers. 
Seriozha  was  silent,  as  if  trying  the  obedience  of  his 
men.     Finally  he  gave  the  command  unwillingly : 

' '  One — two — shoot ! ' ' 

The  last  word  was  scarcely  out  of  his  mouth  when 
Pronka  and  Konstantin,  having  guessed  that  his  permis- 
sion was  coming,  shot  simultaneously.  Then  all  the 
revolvers  and  rifles  went  off  one  after  the  other. 
Bolotov  was  also  shooting.  He  selected  a  red  ser- 
geant with  moustachios,  who  was  first  man  in  the  first 
row,  and  took  aim  long  and  carefully,  trying  to  calcu- 
late the  distance  and  make  sure  of  his  man.  He 
gave  no  thought  to  it  that  he  was  aiming  at  a  human 
being.  In  his  eyes,  he  was  not  that,  not  even  an  enemy, 
but  an  inanimate  object,  a  target,  at  which  he  had  to 
shoot  and  which  he  must  not  miss.  At  last  he  pulled 
the  trigger,  and  when  the  smoke  had  cleared  away,  he 
saw  that  the  dragoons  were  mounting  their  horses 
and  turning  back  in  disorder.  The  sergeant  was  not 
wounded.     The  men  on  the  barricade  were  now  shooting 


What  Never  Happened  123 

at  them  continuousl}^  without  doing  any  harm.  On  the 
trampled  snow  lay  two  human  bodies  and  near  them  the 
officer's  thoroughbred  horse  was  jumping  about  on  three 
legs,  bending  her  fourth  one,  which  had  been  struck  above 
the  knee,     Konstantin  exclaimed  triumphantly: 

"Comrades,  the  officer  is  killed!  So  help  me  God! 
I'll  run  and  take  a  look,"  He  jumped  over  the  bul- 
wark and  made  his  way  slowly  to  the  dead  soldiers  with- 
out paying  any  attention  to  the  dragoons,  who  had 
stopped  beyond  the  Presnensky  ponds.  Pronka  leaned 
over  the  barricade  and  shouted  in  a  thin,  frightened 
voice : 

''Kensentin,  come  back;     Come  back,  Kensentin!" 

Bolotov  returned  to  the  bonfire. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  evening  passed  quietly.  The  dragoons  did 
not  disturb  the  barricades  again.  The  ter- 
rorists retreated  to  the  school-house  and  spent 
the  night  in  the  uncomfortable  unpainted  class-room, 
on  the  floor  among  the  desks.  A  lamp  diffused  a  dim 
light.  The  room  was  stuffy  and  smelled  of  kerosene, 
cheap  tobacco,  damp  sheepskin,  and  the  odour  of 
men  sleeping  in  their  clothes.  Bolotov  could  not  rest. 
About  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  he  rose,  picked  his 
way  over  his  comrades,  and  went  out  into  the  street. 

Towards  morning  it  became  frostier.  The  heavens 
were  starry.  In  the  east  shone  the  Big  Dipper,  its 
handle  pointing  downwards.  A  motionless  shadow 
loomed  up  from  the  dark  bulwark  of  the  barricade. 
Konstantin  was  on  sentry  duty.  The  fire  was  dying  out, 
but  a  thin  trembling  bluish  flame  was  still  fighting  the 
night.  At  the  fire  Seriozha  was  squatting  on  his  heels 
with  his  hands  clasping  his  knees  and  his  eyes  fixed  on 
the  red  coals.  Every  now  and  then  the  fire  lighted  up 
his  hands  and  heavy  peasant  boots.  His  shoulders, 
chest,  face  and  blond  curly  hair  were  lost  in  the  dark- 
ness. Bolotov  came  near  him.  Seriozha  moved  in  si- 
lence and  was  immediately,  as  if  by  magic,  swallowed 
up  in  the  darkness. 

Bolotov 's  face  and  feet  felt  hot  at  the  fire,  but  his  back 
and  neck  were  freezing.  He  threw  his  cigarette  butt 
into  the  fire  and  said : 

124 


What  Never  Happened  125 

"I  can't  understand  it,  Seriozha.  We  are  being  shot 
to  death,  hanged,  strangled.  We  hang  others,  strangle 
and  burn.  But  why  is  it,  if  I  kill  Sliozkin,  I  am  a  hero ; 
but  if  he  hangs  me,  he  is  a  scoundrel?  That  is  fit  for 
Hottentots.  Either  one  must  not  kill,  in  which  case 
both  Sliozkin  and  I  are  criminals,  or  killing  is  permis- 
sible, and  neither  he  nor  I  are  heroes,  nor  scoundrels, 
but  merely  men  and  enemies. 

"Volodya  says,"  Bolotov  continued  to  think  aloud, 
"that's  all  sentimentality  and  when  one's  at  war  one 
must  kill  without  mercy.  A  la  guerre  comme  a  la 
guerre.  Well,  of  course,  one  must.  So  we  are  killing. 
But  tell  me  this,  may  we  assume  that  Sliozkin  persecuted 
us  out  of  principle,  not  for  gain?  May  we  assume  that 
he  considered  it  his  duty  to  fight  us,  in  the  interests  of 
the  people,  not  his  own?  May  we  assume  it?  Yes? 
It's  possible,  isn't  it?  It's  possible  that  one  out  of  a 
hundred  or  a  thousand  Sliozkins  should  be  like  that, 
isn't  it?  It's  possible,  eh?  Well,  then,  where  is  the 
difference  between  him  and  me?  It's  my  opinion  that 
either  murder  is  always  permissible — or  never." 

Konstantin  climbed  down  from  the  dark  barricade, 
and  passed  them  yawning,  looking  red  in  the  firelight. 
Seriozha  followed  him  absently  with  his  eyes  and  said: 

"Where  are  you  going,  Konstantin?" 

"Relief,  Sergey  Vasilyevich. " 

"Relief?" 

"Exactly,  relief." 

"How  many  times  have  I  told  you,"  Seriozha  re- 
marked indignantly,  "not  to  leave  the  barricade  without 
permission?    Whose  turn  is  next?" 

' '  Roman  Aleksieyevich  's. ' ' 

Roman  Aleksieyevich,  tall,  slim  and  stooping,  looking 


126  What  Never  Happened 

like  a  strange  long-legged  bird  in  the  night,  was  cough- 
ing on  the  porch.     The  revolver  clicked  in  his  hands. 

"Roman  Aleksieyevich ! "  Seriozha  called  in  a  kind 
voice. 

"What  is  it?" 

"You  ought  to  get  some  sleep.  I'll  take  your  place. 
I'm  not  sleeping  anyway." 

'  *  "What  do  you  mean  ?  How  can  I  ?  It 's  no  hardship 
to  me." 

Coughing  and  groaning,  he  climbed  painfully  on  to 
the  bulwark  and  moved  about  in  the  snow.  When  he 
became  quiet  at  last,  Seriozha  shook  his  head : 

"  He 's  at  the  edge  of  the  grave.     What  a  pity ! ' ' 

Bolotov  felt  slighted  that  his  thoughts,  which  seemed 
so  deep  and  significant  should  be  so  rudely  interrupted. 
He  was  silent  for  a  while  and  then  began  again  pensively : 

' '  Then  it  must  not  and  ought  not  be  ?  Then  where  is 
the  law?  In  the  Party  program?  In  Karl  Marx? 
In  Engels?  In  Kant?  But  that's  all  nonsense,"  he 
whispered  in  agitation.  "Neither  ]\Iarx,  nor  Engels, 
nor  Kant  ever  killed  people.  You  hear?  Never,  no- 
body. Then  they  can  not  know  what  I  know,  what  you 
or  Volodya  know.  Whatever  they  may  write,  it  will 
remain  a  mystery  to  them  whether  or  not  it  is  right  to 
kill.  We  alone  know  it,  we,  those  who  have  killed.  I 
for  instance,  know  it  was  not  right  to  kill  Sliozkin,  what- 
ever he  might  have  been,  whatever  I  might  have  been, 
whatever  I  might  have  thought  of  him. ' ' 

As  Bolotov  went  on,  he  felt  greater  and  greater  sur- 
prise at  himself,  at  his  boldness,  at  his  audacious  ques- 
tions. Those  weak  beggarly  thoughts  which  had  been 
born  on  that  unfortunate  night  had  never  before  been  put 


What  Never  Happened  127 

into  words;  and  now,  as  he  was  saying  them  aloud,  he 
felt  frightened;  he  felt  he  was  lying  to  himself.  But 
he  could  not  see  where  the  lie  came  in. 

"But  we  did  kill  him,"  he  finished  in  anguish  and 
was  silent. 

"Sliozkin  ought  not  to  have  been  killed,"  said  Seriozha 
in  a  bored  tone  as  if  half  asleep,  "and  may  a  dragoon 
be  killed?" 

"A  dragoon?" 

"Yes,  a  dragoon.    "Why  speak  only  of  Sliozkin?" 

"A  dragoon  also — " 

"There!  But  you  would  kill  him  like  a  fly  and  still 
your  conscience  would  be  clear.  Who  killed  the  officer 
yesterday?  You?  I?  Konstantin?  Why  doesn't  that 
affect  you?  Certainly  the  officer  wasn't  guilty  of  any- 
thing. He  was  merely  carrying  out  orders.  Then  why 
kill  him?"  Seriozha  continued  in  a  voice  of  anguish, 
new  to  Bolotov.  "Is  it  because  we  were  all  shooting 
and  we  can  not  establish  whose  bullet  killed  him?  Is 
it  because  the  officer  was  not  wailing,  or  if  he  was,  w6 
could  not  hear  him?  You  say,  we  must  not  kill.  Per- 
haps, you  really  are  of  that  opinion.  But  you  could  not 
feel  the  dragoon's  death,  you  could  not  see  his  death. 
He  merely  fell  off  the  saddle,  as  far  as  you  are  con- 
cerned.    But  at  Sliozkin 's  his  wife  was  crying." 

"You're  right."  Bolo+ov  was  lost  in  thought.  He 
was  not  surprised  that  Seriozha  divined  and  even  dis- 
puted his  thoughts.  "But  that's  still  worse.  I  can't 
understand  a  thing  then.  You  know,  before  I  had  had 
occasion  to  kill,  I  thought  it  was  all  very  simple.  The 
Party  gives  orders  to  kill,  and  you  kill.  And  the  man 
that  does  the  killing  is  a  hero,  he  sacrificed  his  life. 


128  What  Never  Happened 

That's  the  way  I  thought  for  a  long  time.  But  now  I 
see  it's  a  lie.  One  must  not  and  should  not  kill.  Ex- 
plain it.     I  can't  understand  it." 

"Ah,  explain!"  Seriozha  smiled  bitterly.  "How  can 
I  explain?  How  do  I  know?  How  can  we  know?  I 
know  one  thing,  if  you  go  anywhere,  go  to  the  end,  or 
don't  go  at  all.  And  I  also  know,"  he  added  in  a  softer 
voice,  "whoever  raises  his  sword  shall  perish  by  the 
sword." 

The  door  on  the  staircase  creaked.  Vanya  ap- 
proached the  fire  slowly,  and  stuck  his  hands  over  it  and 
raised  his  narrow,  slanting  Asiatic  eyes  up  to  the  sky. 

"Can't  you  sleep?"  Seriozha  asked. 

"No,"  answered  Vanya,  yawning  and  slapping  his 
hand  to  his  mouth.  "It  must  be  about  six  o'clock. 
Look  how  many  stars  are  out."  He  sat  down  in  the 
snow  and  began  to  roll  a  cigarette.  "A  frost  is  surely 
coming.  Konstantin  was  looking  at  the  dead  officer 
last  night,"  he  went  on,  removing  a  hot  coal  from  the 
fire.  "He  says  he  was  refined  and  young,  well-fed. 
The  bullet  must  have  gone  through  his  heart.  A  dog 
may  have  good  teeth  and  still  be  cheap, ' '  he  added  scorn- 
fully. 

"You  see,"  Bolotov  said  pointing  to  Vanya,  "he  sees 
no  problem  at  all — well-fed  dog.    Kobody." 

It  was  dawning.  Pale,  greyish  streaks  appeared  in 
the  east,  and  the  stars  began  to  dim  and  fade  away.  The 
fire  flashed  up  for  the  last  time.  A  handful  of  red-hot 
lumps  of  coal  illuminated  the  half -circle  of  melted  snow 
around  it,  the  black  earth,  which  was  freezing  off,  and 
Seriozha 's  face,  which  remained  expressionless,  as  if 
carved  in  stone. 

"Of  course,  a  dog.    What  else?"  Vanya  yawned. 


What  Never  Happened  129 

**But  it's  not  a  dogr,  Vanya,  it's  a  human  being." 

**0f  course,  I  know.  But  what  else  can  we  do? 
Should  we  look  out  for  their  safety  ? ' ' 

*'But  killing's  a  sin,  Vanya." 

"I  know  it  is,"  Vanya  replied  after  a  pause,  without 
raising  his  eyes.  * '  Only  what 's  to  be  done  ?  If  you  call 
yourself  a  mushroom,  get  into  the  basket.  And  as  to 
sins,  God  shall  judge." 

♦'God?" 

"I  don't  care  for  any  of  those  words,"  Vanya  cried 
suddenly,  indignant  and  flushed.  * '  I  know  '  for  land  and 
freedom!'  That's  all  and  no  more.  Yes,  for  land  and 
freedom ! "  he  repeated  in  a  quieter  tone  and  turned  to 
Seriozha. 

*'Have  you  an  idea,  Sergey  Vasilyevich,  when  Vladi- 
mir Ivanovich  will  be  back?" 

Seriozha  did  not  answer.  He  turned  his  head  to- 
wards Prudova  Street  and  began  to  listen.  In  the  dawn- 
ing he  appeared  all  grey — a  grey  face,  a  grey  cap,  a 
grey  jacket  and  boots.  On  the  barricade  Roman 
Aleksieyevich  began  to  cough  and  move  about.  One 
could  see  how  he  got  up,  put  his  broad  palm  to  his  ear 
and  listened.  A  dry  frosty  December  morning  was 
dawning.  Every  sound  was  distinct  and  resonant  in  the 
pure,  cold,  transparent  air.  The  sound  of  wheels  could 
be  heard  somewhere  at  a  distance,  beyond  the  Presnen- 
sky  Ponds.  Bolotov  trembled.  A  moment  later  one 
could  distinctly  hear  the  sound  of  hoofs  in  the  churned 
snow  and  a  ringing  clatter  of  iron.  Vanya  was  the  first 
to  come  to  himself. 

"It  sounds  like  artillery,  Sergey  Vasilyevich. " 

Sleepy-looking  Konstantin  ran  out  from  the  school- 
house   and  began  to  whisper  something  to   Seriozha. 


130  What  Never  Happened 

Then  he  went  over  to  the  barricade,  thought  a  while, 
and  suddenly  jumped  over  the  bulwark  and  slid  rapidly 
and  silently  along  the  walls  of  the  building.  The 
men,  sullen,  puzzled  and  shivering  from  cold,  were 
gathering  around  Seriozha. 

''Undoubtedly  the  Semyonov  Regiment,"  Vanya  said 
loudly. 

* '  That  means  Volodya  is  lost, ' '  Bolotov  thought.  For 
the  first  time  that  week  he  was  seized  by  terror.  He  was 
not  trying  to  grasp  the  meaning  of  the  word  "Sem- 
yonov," but  he  felt  vaguely  that  what  had  been  till  now 
was  not  the  worst,  but  the  bloody,  hopeless  events  were 
still  to  come.  He  had  a  sensation  that  all  around  him 
was  not  Moscow  in  an  uprising  the  life  of  which  he  was 
sharing,  but  a  mass  of  pitiful  ruins,  a  burned  desert. 
St.  Petersburg  had  betrayed  them,  the  Moscow  revolu- 
tion was  left  to  her  own  small  strength,  the  fighting 
squad,  hence  himself,  had  been  deserted  by  the  Party,  by 
all  Russia.  The  instant  he  fully  grasped  the  situation  a 
feeling  of  pride  and  indignation  took  hold  of  him. 

**We  shall  not  surrender,"  he  thought,  and  all  his 
previous  reflections  about  murder,  death,  Sliozkin  and 
dragoons  seemed  futile  and  valueless.  "What  do  we 
know?"  He  recalled  the  striking  words  of  Seriozha. 
And  when  ten  minutes  later  Konstantin  returned  all 
excited  and  told  in  broken  whispers  that  Povarskaya 
Street  was  full  of  infantry  and  artillery,  Bolotov  listened 
without  misgivings.  "If  you  go,  go  to  the  end,"  he  re- 
called again.  And  he  felt  no  terror,  but  joy  at  the 
thought  that  the  early,  glorious  end  was  inevitable. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  sun  rose,  and  a  cold,  pale  red  set  the  white 
snow  a-sparkle.  Bolotov  could  see  two  can- 
nons beyond  the  Presnensky  Ponds,  where  the 
dragoons  had  dismounted  the  day  before.  Their  burn- 
ished bodies  and  wrought-iron  wheels  glinted  in  the  sun- 
light. There  was  not  a  soul  on  Prudovaya  Street,  and  all 
the  shutters  were  tightly  closed.  Only  in  the  many- 
storied  brick  box — the  house  of  merchant  Chizhov,  with 
a  saloon  on  the  ground  floor — soldiers'  caps  and 
gleaming  bayonets  appeared  in  the  windows.  Bolotov 
was  fully  aware  they  could  expect  no  mercy  this  time. 
"We  shall  not  surrender,"  he  repeated  to  himself,  set- 
ting his  teeth,  and  looking  back  at  his  silently  expectant 
comrades.  All  their  faces,  even  Pronka's,  were  sombre 
and  severe.  Seriozha  alone  was  as  usual.  To  judge  by 
his  slow  motions  and  low,  self-assured  tones,  one  would 
have  thought  he  had  foreseen  everything,  and  nothing 
terrible  could  happen,  and  the  army  would  be  defeated. 
Bolotov  looked  at  him  in  admiration.  He  had  long 
ceased  to  regret  that  not  he,  member  of  the  committee 
and  famous  revolutionist,  was  in  charge  of  the  barri- 
cade, but  this  youthful  army-deserter;  and  that  the  de- 
voted revolutionists,  from  the  impenetrable  Roman 
Aleksieyevich  down  to  the  scatterbrained  Pronka,  were 
not  obedient  to  him,  Bolotov,  the  idol  of  the  Party,  but 
to  the  unknown  Seriozha. 

The  mechanics  were  busy  at  the  cannons.     The  gun- 

131 


132  What  Never  Happened 

ner,  illuminated  by  the  slanting  morning  rays,  was  giv- 
ing orders,  waving  his  hands.  He  was  standing  to  the 
right  of  the  cannons  and  nearby  a  little  behind  them 
sparkled  the  golden  buttons  of  an  officer's  uniform.  A 
sporty  lieutenant  was  examining  the  barricades  with  a 
binocular.  Konstantin  raised  his  revolver  rapidly  and 
aimed  a  short,  solitary  shot  that  broke  the  silence  of  the 
morning. 

Bolotov  clearly  saw  the  bullet  hit  the  wall  without 
touching  the  gunner  and  a  bit  of  the  red  brick  wall  fall 
to  the  ground.  He  also  saw  the  lieutenant  remove  the 
binocular  from  his  eyes  indifferently,  step  aside  and  bow 
his  head  and  examine  the  fragments  curiously.  It  was 
strange  to  see  those  people  so  quietly  engaged  in  their 
work.  It  was  hard  to  believe  that  the  dandified  officer 
and  the  tall  kind-faced  gunner  wanted  to  kill, 
and  perhaps  would  kill  him,  Bolotov,  and  that  their 
business  was  to  kill  and  to  shoot  almost  unarmed 
men  with  machine-guns.  "Will  they  kill?"  Bolotov 
thought,  as  he  aimed  his  revolver.  "Yes,  of  course,  they 
will."  He  did  not  notice  himself  pull  the  trigger;  but 
from  the  recoil  on  his  shoulder  and  the  wailing  sound,  he 
realized  he  had  fired  a  shot. 

"Don't  quarrel  with  God,"  Vanya  said  ironically. 
"Sergey  Vasilyevich,  what  are  you  waiting  for?" 

Sergey  nodded  in  silence. 

A  thin  disorderly  volley  of  shots  filled  the  frosty  air. 
Pronka  was  shooting  last  and  apart  from  the  others, 
with  his  eyes  half  closed  and  a  frightened  look  on  his 
face,  as  if  drowning  in  icy  water.  Bolotov  smiled,  so 
unrecognizable  was  the  man's  round,  large-jawed  face, 
which  always  wore  a  look  of  industriousness,  but  was 
now  distorted  by  fear.     The  gunner  fell  to  the  ground, 


AVhat  Never  Happened  133 

but  even  before  the  smoke  lifted  from  the  barricade, 
a  white  wavy  cloud  from  the  cannons  arose  into  the 
frosty  air.  Above  Bolotov's  head  the  first  shrapnel 
whizzed  warningly.  He  had  never  heard  the  sound  be- 
fore, and  did  not  grasp  the  threatening  significance  of 
it  and  smiled  again.  Pronka  and  Vasily  Grigoryevich 
ducked  down  into  the  snow  as  if  at  command. 

''What  are  you  bowing  for?  Are  you  being  intro- 
duced?" Konstantin  said  gruffly. 

Then  came  what  Bolotov  would  never  have  believed 
had  he  not  lived  through  that  day.  Not  one  of  the  bit- 
ter skirmishes  with  the  troops,  not  one  of  those  cavalry 
attacks  which  the  squad  had  been  repulsing  daily  had 
even  a  remote  resemblance  to  those  short,  rapidly  pass- 
ing moments.  Bolotov  had  become  accustomed  to  seeing 
the  men  after  the  first  few  shots  abandon  the  dead  and 
retreat  in  disorder  to  the  barricades.  Though  he  had 
known  that  revolvers  were  mere  playthings  and  artillery 
would  swamp  the  barricades  and  their  own  squad  was 
powerless,  still  in  the  bottom  of  his  heart  he  could  not 
believe  that  the  Semyonov  Regiment  would  not  retreat. 
He  could  not  believe  that  all  the  efforts  and  sacrifices 
and  sleepless  nights  had  been  in  vain,  that  the  uprising 
was  crushed  and  that  Moscow  was  again  in  the  hands 
of  the  army.  He  could  not  believe  that  the  Party  had 
not  and  could  not  come  to  their  assistance,  that  St. 
Petersburg  had  really  betrayed  them  and  that  what  had 
been  true  the  day  before  was  now,  on  this  winter  morn- 
ing, in  front  of  the  warring  cannons,  an  untruth,  a 
monstrous  lie.  "They  will  retreat — will  retreat,"  he 
kept  repeating  in  an  attempt  to  convince  himself,  now 
shaken  by  despairing  anger,  now  hoping  against  hope. 
But  a  quarter  of  an  hour  passed,  and  still  the  rifles  rang 


134  What  Never  Happened 

out,  and  the  hand-grenades  whizzed  past  and  showers 
of  shrapnel  rained  about  him.  The  second  shot  fell 
about  ten  paces  in  front.  The  explosion  split  the  ice, 
exposing  the  roof  of  an  overturned  car  and  bending  the 
sheets  of  iron  that  covered  the  barricade.  But  after  the 
third  shot  one  of  the  men,  a  watchmaker's  apprentice, 
Leizer,  a  dark  Jew  with  curly  hair,  whom  Bolotov  had 
noticed  at  Sliozkin's  house,  sighed,  dropped  his  revolver 
and  clutched  at  his  breast.  He  retreated  slowly  from 
the  barricade,  lowered  his  head,  stood  a  while,  as  if  in 
reflection,  and  dropped  slowly,  face  downward,  into  the 
snow.  Thick  red  foam  gathered  at  his  mouth.  Soon 
after,  the  whole  alley,  the  barricade,  the  troopers,  the 
Presnensky  Ponds,  the  saloon  and  the  cannons  were 
all  enveloped  in  heavy  white  smoke.  Bolotov  heard  the 
incessant  bursting  of  bullets,  saw  the  wall  of  smoke, 
and  without  aiming,  unconscious  of  what  he  was  doing, 
he  kept  on  shooting.  He  made  up  his  mind  to  the  fact 
that  he  would  be  killed,  and  this,  once  established  in 
his  mind,  he  was  seized  by  an  oppressive  indifference. 
He  gave  no  thought  to  the  revolution.  It  was  of  no  im- 
portance whether  or  not  St.  Petersburg  had  revolted  and 
whether  or  not  Moscow  was  captured  by  the  govern- 
ment forces.  Only  one  thing  was  important,  he  knew 
he  must  shoot  and  must  not  leave  the  barricade,  must 
defend  the  Party  banner  to  the  last  moment  even  at 
the  cost  of  his  life.  But  he  did  not  dare  to  look  behind 
him.  He  could  judge  by  the  sound  of  falling  bodies  and 
the  suppressed  groans  that  many  of  his  comrades 
had  been  wounded  or  killed.  He  was  afraid  to  look, 
afraid  he  might  lose  courage  and  run  without  looking 
back.  His  revolver  grew  hot  and  the  steel  burned  his 
hand,  but,  heedless  of  the  pain,  he  kept  on  discharging 


iWhat  Never  Happened  135 

the  bullets  that  were  left.  Suddenly  the  short  rapid 
rifle  fire  and  the  heavy  cannonading  were  augmented  by 
a  new  sound,  also  short  and  rapid,  but  deeper  and  more 
distinct. 

"Dear  me,  machine-guns!"  Pronka  shouted  desper- 
ately at  the  top  of  his  voice.  He  threw  his  revolver 
away  and  dropped  down  into  the  snow.  Bolotov  looked 
at  him  sideways.  He  lay  prostrate,  his  face  buried  in 
the  snow,  his  hat  over  his  brows.  From  under  his  hat, 
his  neck  with  the  hair  cut  in  a  semi-circle  was  visible. 
Bolotov  concluded  that  Pronka  had  been  killed.  But 
Pronka  moved  and  tugged  at  Bolotov 's  belt. 

"Lie  down,"  he  whispered. 

"Are  you  wounded?"  Bolotov  asked. 

Pronka  raised  his  unkempt  head  and  shook  it  violently. 
There  was  fear  in  his  eyes.  To  his  right  Vanya,  gloomy 
and  black  from  the  smoke,  was  standing  at  the  barricade, 
his  whole  attention  concentrated  on  shooting.  He  turned 
at  Bolotov 's  words,  looked  attentively  at  Pronka,  and 
poked  him  in  the  side  with  his  boot. 

"Absolutely  not  wounded!  Ah,  you  bastard!  Get 
up,  get  up,  you  scoundrel!" 

Pronka  cautiously  raised  himself  to  his  knees  and 
with  a  dirty  forefinger  pointed  out  to  Bolotov  a  soft, 
wet,  formless  mass  lying  near  him.  Bolotov  bent  down. 
He  saw  fragments  of  clothing,  blood-covered  feet,  black 
laced  shoes  and  a  red  stain  on  the  melting  snow.  By 
the  sheepskin  hat  and  the  broken  tortoise  shell  pince-nez 
he  knew  it  to  be  Vasily  Grigoryevich.  He  was  not 
frightened — not  even  surprised.  It  was  all  as  it  should 
be,  there  was  nothing  terrible  in  one  of  them  having 
been  killed.  Vanya  began  to  shout  again,  and  Bolotov, 
walking  around  Pronka,  went  over  to  him.     In  the  lift- 


136  What  Never  Happened 

iug  gusts  of  smoke,  through  a  narrow  strip  of  light, 
appeared  the  familiar  street,  and  the  same  cannons  and 
the  same  party  of  officers  in  the  same  position  near  the 
saloon.  Bolotov  raised  his  revolver  to  fire  at  the  officers, 
but  somebody  struck  him  on  the  shoulder : 

"Bolotov,  can't  you  hear?  Retreat!"  Seriozha 
shouted  in  his  ear. 

The  school-house  could  be  seen  again  as  the  smoke 
lifted.  In  the  space  between  the  school-house  and  the 
barricade,  the  snow  was  littered  and  ploughed  up  with 
shrapnel  and  bullets.  They  had  to  run  across  this 
stretch.  Pronka,  without  rising  from  his  knees,  shel- 
tered by  the  barricade,  glanced  around  like  a  cat,  and 
was  the  first  to  run,  in  a  zig-zag,  to  the  steps  of  the 
school-house.  But  when  he  was  still  far  from  his  goal, 
he  threw  up  his  hands  feebly  and  fell  face  downwards 
into  the  snow.  The  trooper  who  had  been  watching  him 
run  wavered.  But  Konstantin  started  and  disappeared 
safely  behind  the  door.  After  Konstantin,  Vanya  crept 
out  stealthily. 

Bolotov  and  Seriozha  kept  on  shooting.  They  un- 
derstood each  other  without  words  and  decided  not 
to  leave  until  all  the  comrades  were  in  the  school-house. 
When  the  last  man  had  run  up  the  school  steps,  Bolotov, 
feeling  that  all  eyes  in  the  school-house  were  turned 
upon  him,  straightened  up  and  deliberately  slackening 
his  steps  advanced.  His  heart  was  beating.  Those 
forty-five  yards  seemed  longer  than  as  many  versts,  but 
not  once  did  he  feel  the  desire  to  run,  or  any  concern  for 
his  life.  Much  later,  when  he  recalled  those  moments,  he 
could  not  explain  whether  it  had  been  courage,  a  quiet 
contempt  for  danger,  or  that  simple  indifference  which 
one  experiences  when  he  has  no  fear  of  death  because 


What  Never  Happened  137 

it  is  inevitable.  When  he  mounted  the  steps  he  looked 
around.  The  alleys  were  still  enveloped  in  heavy  smoke. 
On  the  ruins  of  the  demolished  barricade  shreds  of  the 
flag  were  waving  on  a  pole.  Near  it  a  bent,  dark  figure 
was  moving.  Bolotov  recognized  Roman  Aleksieyevich. 
He  grasped  the  banner  and  jumped  down  awkwardly, 
but  the  next  instant,  like  Pronka,  he  threw  up  his  hands 
helplessly  and  dropped  into  the  snow. 

Then  Konstantin  suddenly  moved  away  from  the 
gloomy  revolutionists,  whose  number  had  thinned  down. 
Hunching  his  shoulders,  as  if  it  were  raining,  he  jumped 
over  prostrate  bodies  and  ran  over  to  Roman  Aleksieye- 
vich. Bolotov  saw  him  raise  the  banner  high  over  his 
head. 

"He  will  come  back,"  he  thought  indifferently,  but 
Konstantin  was  already  running  up  the  stairs,  pressing 
the  red  tatters  to  his  breast. 

A  cold  wind  sprang  up  and  began  to  drive  the  smoke 
away.  At  the  other  end  of  the  alley  the  grey  uniforms 
of  the  soldiers  stretched  along  the  houses  and  moved 
slowly  in  an  endless,  ominous  chain  towards  the  deserted 
barricades.  They  passed  it  and  suddenly  stopped  at  a 
distance  from  the  school-house.  Bolotov  raised  his  re- 
volver. 

"Don't  shoot,"  Seriozha  held  his  arm. 

Suddenly  Bolotov  saw  Vanya  with  a  triumphant  in- 
dignant face  and  frightened  Asiatic  eyes  lean  out  of  the 
window,  raise  a  shining  box  over  his  head,  and  hurl  it 
into  the  crowd.  There  was  a  terrific  explosion,  which 
drowned  the  roar  of  the  cannons.  Yellowish  smoke  rose 
funnel-shaped  from  the  ground.  AVhen  it  cleared  away, 
the  snow  was  covered  with  rifles,  uniforms,  caps  and 
torn,  mangled,  unrecognizable  human  bodies.     Dark-red 


138  What  Never  Happened 

spots  were  growing  into  pools  among  the  loose  stones  in 
the  road.  Some  three  dozen  soldiers  were  running  in 
disorder  back  into  the  alley. 

Among  the  revolutionists  no  one  said  a  word.  Revol- 
vers were  fired  still  more  rapidly.  Bolotov  could  not  tell 
how  long  the  firing  lasted.  He  had  lost  all  sense  of  time. 
The  same  sharp  thought,  the  same  insistent  desire  in 
spite  of  will  and  reason  were  in  complete  control  of  him. 
He  could  not  have  gone  away  even  had  he  wanted  to.  So 
far  was  any  thought  of  saving  himself  from  his  mind 
that  he  was  not  asking  himself  whether  or  not  he  should 
run.  In  fact,  he  was  sure  he  would  die  there,  in  the 
school-house,  under  the  torn  red  flag.  As  if  through  a 
mist  he  remembered  afterwards  that  he  had  kept  on  shoot- 
ing incessantly,  that  his  bullets  had  kept  on  striking  the 
tables  and  walls  and  doors,  and  the  air  smelled  of  powder 
and  it  was  difficult  to  breathe.  He  also  remembered  that 
as  he  aimed  at  the  artillery  officer  from  the  cover  of  the 
window  frame  something  fell  behind  him  and  threw  him 
to  the  floor.  When  he  scrambled  to  his  feet,  the  room 
was  filled  with  bluish-white  rings  of  smoke,  and  he 
realized  that  some  shrapnel  had  fallen  into  the  room. 
He  remembered  how  the  school-house  had  been  set  on 
fire,  how  it  became  still  more  difficult  to  breathe,  and  how 
crackling  streaks  of  fire  had  swept  the  walls.  And  he 
remembered  how  Seriozha  had  caught  his  arm  and  how 
Seriozha,  Konstantin,  Vanya  and  himself  had  leapt 
do"WTi  a  charred,  smoke-filled  staircase.  Below  was  the 
quiet  empty  school-house  bathed  in  sunshine.  But  how 
they  climbed  over  the  stone  fence,  and  how  they  made 
their  way  into  distant  streets  and  finally  reached  the  sub- 
urbs of  Moscow  and  the  Sokolnichaya  Grove,  Bolotov 
could  never  recall. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

MISHA  spent  the  summer  on  the  estate.  To- 
wards the  end  of  August,  when  the  young 
birches  were  turning  yellow  and  the  fields  of 
buckwheat  red,  at  the  touch  of  the  first  hoar  frosts,  he 
started  preparations  for  his  trip  to  the  university  in 
St.  Petersburg.  For  weeks  a  fine  autumn  rain  had  been 
falling  almost  continuously.  In  the  intervals  when  it 
stopped,  the  sun  would  shine  hot  through  fleecy  clouds 
and  draw  mist  from  the  frosty  air,  and  turn  the  spider- 
webs  flung  over  the  serene  fields  into  silver.  The  woods 
had  long  since  undergone  a  change.  The  falling  leaves 
lay  rotting  in  the  hollows  in  the  ground  amid  patches 
of  sweet-smelling  grass.  The  birds  were  silent.  Some- 
times a  wind  sprang  up  and  swayed  the  naked  branches 
and  whirled  the  fallen  leaves.  The  orchard  and  the 
vegetable  garden  were  radiant  with  colour — rosy-cheeked 
apples,  blue-green  cabbages,  and  yellow  cucumbers. 
The  air  was  redolent  of  hops  and  dill  and  mint. 

The  country  roads  were  covered  with  deep  black  mud. 
The  patient  horses  panted  as  they  struggled  tugging 
along  the  ancient  lumbering  travelling-coach.  The 
autumn  had  set  in  early  and  was  already  on  the  wane. 

Misha  had  been  lonely  all  summer  long.  Duty,  he  felt, 
called  him  to  St.  Petersburg,  where  Andriusha  needed 
him.  He  feared  he  would  be  late  at  the  barricades  and 
every  day  spent  in  the  country — wilderness,  he  called  it 
— was  wasted.     Chafing  under  the  unpleasant  experi- 

139 


140  What  Never  Happened 

ence  of  enforced  idleness,  he  evaded  his  mother's  annoy- 
ing questions  and  his  sister's  attempts  at  conversation, 
and  though  he  was  sensitive  to  the  degradation,  the  pain, 
the  fruitlessness  of  controversy  with  his  father,  he  en- 
tered into  irritating  disputes  with  him. 

On  the  day  of  his  departure  Misha  rose  at  dawn  and 
went  to  the  stable  right  away  to  remind  Tikhon  it  was 
time  to  harness  the  horses.  Kain  had  fallen  during  the 
night.  Eemnants  of  tattered  clouds  were  drifting  in 
the  sky.  The  wet  branches  of  the  half-naked  birches 
drooped  helplessly.  Trudging  through  the  mud  and 
jumping  over  pools,  Misha  made  his  way  to  the  stalls. 
Tikhon  was  not  there.  The  place  smelled  of  manure, 
saw-dust  and  straw.  At  the  sound  of  his  light  steps, 
Golubka  turned  her  finely  shaped  head  and  slanted  her 
black,  sparkling  expressive  eyes.  In  the  neighbouring 
stall  Zolotoy,  scenting  Misha 's  presence,  pawed  the 
ground.  Misha  embraced  Golubka,  and  instantly  his  joy 
vanished.  He  became  sad.  His  approaching  depar- 
ture no  longer  seemed  desirable.  Golubka  snorted 
and  pressed  her  side  against  the  wooden  partition,  and 
turned  her  head,  and  pranced.  Misha  left  her  and  ran 
out  of  the  stall.  On  the  wet,  black  ground  trampled  up 
and  washed  out  by  many  rains,  lay  bundles  of  straw  and 
a  rusty  horse-shoe.  Misha  picked  it  up  for  luck,  as  he 
always  did.  Across  the  yard,  on  the  other  side,  were 
the  servants'  quarters  of  red  brick.  Beyond  stood  the 
green  gloomy  fir-trees.  Misha,  twirling  a  stick  thought- 
fully, went  slowly  back  to  the  house.  There  seemed  to 
be  no  reason  now  for  his  leaving.  In  the  house,  in  the 
semi-darkness  of  the  hall,  stood  Nikolay  Stepanovich 
smoking  a  cigarette  and  conversing  with  the  manager, 
Aleksey  Antonovich,  who  stood  with  his  bald  head  bent 


What  Never  Happened  141 

slightly  to  the  side,  his  paunch  protruding,  and  his  soft 
hands  folded  behind  his  back.  He  listened  to  his  em- 
ploj^er  with  a  hardly  perceptible  smile,  now  and  then 
putting  in  short,  casual  remarks. 

' '  The  Kurbatovsky  Woods, ' '  Nikolay  Stepanovich  was 
saying  angrily,  ' '  contain  only  twenty-five  acres.  So  how 
would  it  pay  me  to  sell  them  for  four  hundred?  Fancy ! 
A  nice  price!" 

"But  it  is  all  aspen,  your  excellency,"  said  Aleksey 
Antonovich,  raising  his  eyes  to  the  ceiling  and  sighing. 

'  *  Well,  what  if  it  is  aspen  ?  The  Mozharovs  sold  theirs 
at  four-fifty.  Why  should  our  property  go  for  noth- 
ing?" 

* '  Very  true, ' '  Aleksey  Antonovich  sighed  again. 

**So  tell  him  that.  Tell  him  the  general  doesn't  agree 
to  the  price." 

"Of  course,  I  can  tell  him  that.    Why  not?     But—" 

**Ah,  Misha,"  Nikolay  Stepanovich  turned  to  his  son. 
**go  into  the  billiard  room,  Misha,  there  is  a  letter  from 
Sasha." 

Misha  frowned.  His  brother's  letters  were  always  the 
cause  of  violent,  undignified  quarrels.  The  house  sud- 
denly became  uncomfortable  and  gloomy,  and  the  talk 
about  woods,  prices,  IMozharov  and  sales  seemed  out  of 
place  and  petty.  The  desire  to  leave  awoke  in  him  again. 
He  crossed  the  lofty,  columned  salon,  threw  himself  on 
the  couch  and  waited  sullenly  for  his  father,  paying  no 
attention  to  his  mother  and  sister. 

A  moment  later  the  door  opened,  Nikolay  Stepanovich 
entered,  seated  himself  in  his  favourite  soft  arm-chair 
with  the  carved  back,  took  out  the  letter  and  began  to 
read  it  aloud  in  a  solemn  voice.  The  letter  was  from 
Kioto,  and  Sasha,  with  a  soldier's  exactness  and  without 


142  What  Never  Happened 

comment,  quoted  a  speech  made  by  a  Japanese  general 
to  the  Russian  prisoners  of  war. 

'*  'While  you  are  here,'  "  Nikolay  Stepanovich  read, 
**  'you  must  treat  each  other  in  a  friendly  way  and  be 
restrained  in  your  behaviour,  because  good  behaviour 
enhances  the  dignity  of  a  soldier,  and  you  must  remem- 
ber that  by  good  behaviour  the  prisoners  do  a  serv- 
ice to  their  Fatherland.  Meanwhile  we  must  await 
peace.'  " 

Nikolay  Stepanovich  dropped  the  letter,  shaking  with 
anger. 

"What,  what,  what!  A  Japanese,  a  Japanese,"  he 
kept  repeating,  flushed  and  choking,  "has  the  audacity 
to  instruct — to  instruct — officers  of  the  Russian  navy! 
Has  the  audacity  to  instruct!  Has  the  audacity!  Oh, 
my  God,  my  God!" 

Misha  was  not  affected  by  the  speech  of  the  Japanese 
general,  but  it  was  unpleasant  and  a  bore  to  witness  his 
father's  excitement. 

"Why  such  solemnity,  why  such  indignation?  Sasha 
is  a  prisoner  of  war.  Well,  of  course,  it's  not  a  pleasant 
situation.  The  Japanese  don't  respect  their  prisoners. 
But  the  prisoners  themselves  are  to  blame.  They  should 
have  known  where  and  for  what  purpose  they  were  go- 
ing and  for  whom  they  would  fight.  Besides,  why 
shouldn't  the  Japanese  give  instructions?  Didn't  our 
fleet  at  Port  Arthur  and  Tsu  Shima  prove  it's  not  worth 
a  cent?  Aren't  the  Japanese  cleverer,  more  educated, 
more  civilized  than  we  ?  Are  any  of  the  other  things  we 
do  daily  in  Russia  going  on  in  Japan  ?  And  why  doesn't 
papa  think  of  those  who  perish  for  the  revolution?" 

Thus  Misha  meditated  as  he  listened  in  irritation  to 
his  father,  the  while  thinking  also  of  his  own  affairs — 


What  Never  HapiDened  143 

that  he  had  staid  in  the  country  so  long,  but,  thank 
the  Lord,  was  leaving  today  and  would  surely  find  An- 
driusha  in  St.  Petersburg. 

"My  God,  what  a  disgrace!"  Nikolay  Stepanovich 
said  suddenly  with  tears  in  his  voice.  Misha  could  not 
hold  himself  back. 

"A  disgrace?  Where's  the  disgrace?  Don't  our  of- 
ficers deserve  it?" 

Tatyana  Mikhailovna  looked  at  Misha  reproachfully. 
Those  irritating  quarrels  had  cast  sadness  upon  the  whole 
summer  and  had  magnified  instead  of  diminished  the 
stubborn  family  misunderstandings.  Tatyana  Mikliai- 
lovna  never  asked  herself  who  was  right.  She  was  sorry 
for  her  husband  and  afraid  for  her  son.  Foreseeing  that 
even  the  last  day  would  be  darkened  by  a  dispute,  she 
said  timidly: 

"Do  not  judge,  that  you  may  not  be  judged  yourself, 
Misha!" 

But  Nikolay  Stepanovich  was  already  on  his  feet. 

"No,  no,  no!  This  is  unthinkable!  I  can't  stand  it 
any  longer.  You,  mother,  don't  interfere,  and  you,  my 
dear  sir,  you  have  not  yet  come  out  of  your  swaddling 
clothes.  The  mother's  milk  is  not  yet  dry  on  your  lips. 
"Where's  the  disgrace?  You  can't  see  it?  Take  care, 
Mikhail." 

Natasha  went  over  to  her  father  and  pressed  her  face 
to  his  unshaven,  sticky  cheek  and  kissed  him: 

"Father  dear,  with  God's  mercy,  Sasha  will  soon  be 
here,"  she  whispered  tenderly. 

"Sasha  will  come.  He  will  come,"  Nikolay  Stepan- 
ovich muttered,  as  he  quieted  down.  "A  shame !  A  dis- 
grace !     A  dishonour ! ' ' 

The  hour  of  leaving  came.     A  heavy  wind  was  blow- 


144  What  Never  Happened 

ing  in  gusts,  shaking  the  tops  of  the  lindens  and  raising 
the  decaying  leaves  from  the  ground.  It  was  cold  out- 
side. When  all  seated  themselves  before  the  leavetaking, 
according  to  an  ancient  custom,  and  Misha  for  the  last 
time  looked  at  his  mother 's  shawl  and  at  her  tearful  face, 
Natasha's  blue  eyes,  his  father's  aged  face,  the  blackened 
portraits  on  the  walls  and  the  couches  covered  with 
checkered  cloth;  and  when  for  the  last  time  he  heard 
Nikolay  Stepanovich 's  gruff  but  loving  voice  admonish- 
ing him  not  to  enter  into  friendship  with  the  long-haired 
ones,  but  to  study,  so  as  to  be  able  to  serve  his  ' '  Father- 
land," and  when  he  caught  his  sister's  stolen  glances, 
full  of  suppressed  worry,  he  felt  sorry  again  that  he 
had  to  leave  it  all,  even  though  it  had  long  since  become 
annoying  to  him — his  mother,  father,  Natasha,  the  gar- 
den, the  grove,  the  stream,  the  stalls,  all  that  simple 
country  life.  He  felt  sorry  for  his  father,  old,  grieved 
and  forlorn,  and  for  his  mother,  resigned  and  obedient. 
A  thought  entered  his  mind  for  a  moment,  that  he  was 
launching  upon  a  dishonest,  unkind  venture  and  there 
was  no  one  awaiting  him  in  St.  Petersburg.  But  the 
thought  died  out  immediately. 

"If  I  am  a  Socialist  and  a  revolutionist,"  he  said  to 
himself,  convinced  that  he  was  really  both,  "then  I  must 
feel  no  sorrow.  It  is  my  duty  to  give  my  life  boldly 
and  ungrudgingly." 

He  got  up  and  went  over  to  his  mother.  Tatyana 
Mikhailovna  embraced  his  curly  head  with  trembling 
hands  and  looked  long  into  his  youthful  eyes,  unable 
to  tear  herself  away.  Then  raising  her  hand,  she  crossed 
him  rapidly.  Nikolay  Stepanovich  turned  away  and 
said  in  a  trembling,  tearful  voice: 


What  Never  Happened  145 

"Well,  farewell,  Mikhail.  God  be  with  you.  We  are 
not  parting  for  ever." 

The  wind  died  down.  The  three-horsed  carriage  was 
at  the  perron.  Tikhon  in  a  brown  frock-coat  was  sitting 
on  the  driver's  seat.  The  maid  Dasha,  picking  up  her 
skirts  and  trying  not  to  wet  her  feet  in  the  pools  of 
water,  went  over  to  the  carriage  to  button  the  leather 
apron.  Misha  waved  his  handkerchief  and  the  horses 
started.  Llarshes,  mile-posts,  groves,  and  black  ploughed 
fields  began  to  roll  by  the  carriage.  They  turned  the 
horse-shoe  shaped  road  and  came  into  the  ]\Iozharov 
woods,  which  had  turned  dark-red.  From  the  leaves  of 
the  hazel-trees,  which  were  still  green,  big  cold  drops  of 
water  began  to  fall.  The  Bolotov  estate  disappeared. 
And  as  soon  as  it  disappeared  from  sight,  Misha  with 
the  light-mindedness  of  youth  forgot  about  those  he  had 
left  behind.  He  gave  a  sigh  of  relief  and  began  to  think 
carelessly  of  how  he  would  be  a  student,  an  independent 
man,  how  he  would  come  to  St.  Petersburg  and  would  see 
Andriusha.  The  many  wonderful  surprises  that  the  fu- 
ture had  in  store  for  him  now  filled  his  mind;  and  by 
the  time  the  carriage  had  arrived  at  the  station  of 
Miatlevo,  he  felt  no  regret  for  anybody  or  anything. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

IT  was  not  until  the  beginning  of  December  that 
Misha  succeeded  in  locating  the  Party  headquar- 
ters. During  the  intoxicating  days  of  the  strike  he 
had  been  in  a  joyful  revolutionary  state  of  mind,  and 
under  the  influence  of  the  short-lived  freedom,  had  run 
from  meeting  to  meeting,  applauding  the  speakers  vig- 
orously, singing  the  Marseillaise,  shouting  "Hurrah," 
and  demanding  a  constitutional  assembly.  He  had 
learned  the  catch  phrases  and  could  talk  fluently  about 
the  Party,  about  ''progressive  minimum,"  "labour  re- 
public," the  "socialization  of  land."  But  deep  in  his 
soul  he  did  not  believe  that  the  excitement  and  turmoil 
were  the  revolution.  In  his  eyes  the  "real  revolution- 
ists," the  people  destined  to  build  a  bright,  just  life 
were  Andriusha  and  the  mysterious  committee.  But  he 
did  not  know  how  to  find  them.  At  last  a  casual  ac- 
quaintance, a  bearded,  long-haired  student  at  the  Insti- 
tute of  Technology  undertook  to  take  him  to  the  head- 
quarters. ;Misha  was  overcome  by  the  profoundest 
gratitude,  as  if  the  student  were  granting  him  the  dearest 
wish  of  his  life.  He  made  ready  for  the  solemn  event  a 
week  in  advance. 

' '  Suppose  they  say  I  'm  not  fit  ? "  he  asked  himself  in 
alarm.  But  it  seemed  so  insulting,  so  unjust,  so  un- 
deserved and  cruel,  that  he  rejected  the  idea  and  began 
to  dream  of  that  long-wished-for  moment  when  he  would 
see  Andriusha  and  the  committee. 

"I  shall  enter  and  say:    'Comrades,  I'm  ready  to  die 

146 


Wliat  Never  Happened  147 

for  the  revolution,'  and  nothing  more.  They'll  notice 
me  and  will  ask  me  my  name  and  age.  My  age  is  not 
important,  I'll  say,  because  I've  decided  to  die  any- 
way. Or  this  way :  I  '11  enter  and  say :  '  Take  me  into 
the  fighting  organization.'  Or  better  still:  'Though  I 
am  young,  my  youth  will  not  hinder  me  from  dying  for 
land  and  freedom.'  And  I  shan't  say  a  word  about 
Andriusha  being  my  brother.  He  will  be  in  the  next 
room,  and  they  will  go  to  tell  him  about  the  young 
student.  He  will  wish  to  meet  him  and  will  come  out  to 
shake  hands  with  him.     And  he  will  see  me." 

On  the  appointed  day  Misha  dressed  himself  with 
sophomoric  diligence.  He  used  a  wet  brush  to  smooth 
down  his  refractory  chestnut-coloured  curly  hair.  He 
thought  first  of  putting  on  his  uniform  with  gilded  but- 
tons, then  decided  they  might  not  take  him  for  a  revolu- 
tionist, but  for  a  ''mother's  son,"  and  after  some  de- 
liberation put  on  a  blouse  that  Natasha  had  embroidered 
for  him,  with  his  student's  jacket  over  it.  In  the  audi- 
toriums he  had  noticed  that  many  students  went  about 
like  that  with  bare  necks,  and  on  examining  himself  in 
the  mirror,  he  thought  he  looked  both  elegant  and 
democratic.  Though  the  appointment  was  for  the  eve- 
ning, he  was  on  the  Nevsky  Prospect  by  six  o  'clock.  He 
turned  slowly,  as  if  he  were  going  to  church,  to  Peskaya 
Street,  where  the  headquarters  were  located. 

At  Misha 's  timid  ring,  an  elderly  flat-chested  girl  in 
glasses  opened  the  door  slowly  and  said  without  asking 
anything:  "Come  in."  In  a  small  room,  looking  very 
much  like  a  physician's  anteroom,  several  men  were 
waiting.  Misha  sat  down  in  a  corner  and  timidly  ex- 
amined his  Party  comrades.  At  a  round  table  covered 
with  a  cloth  sat  a  slim,  gloomy  gentleman  with  a  lemon 


148  What  Never  Happened 

complexion  and  long  straight  hair,  yawning  as  he  looked 
through  the  magazine,  Niva.  Two  men  with  a  bored 
expression  lounged  on  a  velvet  couch,  one  of  them 
young  and  heavy-set,  a  workingman,  to  judge  by  his 
shirt  and  boots;  the  other  a  wrinkled  old  man  dozing 
with  his  head  resting  on  his  hand.  The  room  was  quiet. 
The  turning  pages  made  a  dry  rustling.  Misha  wanted 
to  smoke,  but  he  did  not  dare  to  light  a  cigarette. 

In  about  twenty  minutes  a  curtain-covered  door 
opened,  and  a  shaven  comrade  appeared,  dressed  ac- 
cording to  the  rules,  including  the  high  coat  collar.  He 
was  followed  by  a  sporty  student  in  a  frock  coat,  who 
was  pulling  on  his  gloves.  Misha  turned  his  bare  neck 
and  was  sorry  he  had  not  dared  to  put  his  frock  coat  on. 

**Then  I'm  depending  on  you,"  said  the  shaven  com- 
rade, offering  his  hand  to  the  student.  Glancing  around 
the  room,  he  said  in  the  indifferent  voice  of  a  physician 
receiving  visitors: 

** Comrades,  who's  next?" 

The  gloomy  gentleman  rose,  buttoned  up  his  coat,  and 
went  into  the  next  room.  The  young  workingman 
lighted  a  cigarette,  tossing  the  match  on  the  floor.  His 
rough  calloused  hands,  torn  cap  and  dishevelled  hair  in- 
spired Misha  with  awe.  He  was  strongly  impelled  to 
start  a  conversation,  but  the  man  paid  no  attention  to 
him:  "That  old  man,"  thought  Misha,  as  he  listened  to 
his  care-free  snoring,  "must  be  a  famous  revolutionist, 
or  a  terrorist,  or  one  who  has  served  in  the  Schliissel- 
burg  Fortress.  If  the  two  of  them  knew  why  I  am  here, 
they  would  certainly  feel  surprised  and  would  want  to 
know  me  better. "  In  a  distant  part  of  the  house  some- 
body began  to  bang  on  the  piano.    The  noise  seemed 


What  Never  Happened  149 

indecent,  like  an  affront,  to  Misha,  just  as  a  loud  con- 
versation would  seem  in  a  church.  The  old  man  stirred 
in  annoyance  and  muttered  something  under  his  breath. 
The  workingman  stretched  himself,  yawned  and  spat 
out: 

"I  wish  they'd  get  through  soon.  What  are  they 
dragging  it  out  so  for?" 

Finally,  after  many  hours'  waiting,  Misha  was  asked 
to  enter.  At  the  massive  writing  table  he  saw  the  same 
comrade  in  a  high  collar — Doctor  Berg.  A  shaded  lamp 
threw  a  dim  light  on  the  green  cloth  of  the  table.  Vera 
Andreyevna  paced  back  and  forth  on  the  soft  rug  un- 
ceasingly. Misha,  observing  the  impressive  ministerial 
working-room,  the  cold  look  on  Doctor  Berg's  face,  and 
tall  and  dry-looking  Vera  Andreyevna  iu  her  simple 
monastic  dress,  became  utterly  embarrassed.  He  forgot 
the  little  speeches  he  had  so  lovingly  prepared,  and  was 
at  a  loss  how  to  begin.  He  would  gladly  have  left,  had 
it  not  been  too  late.  Doctor  Berg,  irritated  by  Bolotov's 
departure  for  Moscow,  worn  by  sleeplessness  since  the 
night  meeting  at  Valabuyev's,  and  annoyed  by  the  num- 
ber of  visitors,  looked  at  him  lazily  from  under  his 
glasses,  and  asked  dully: 

"What  do  you  wish,  comrade?" 

Misha  had  not  come  to  himself  yet.  He  was  still 
embarrassed  and  looked  at  Doctor  Berg  with  frightened 
eyes.  It  seemed  like  unpardonable  insolence,  almost  a 
crime,  for  him  to  dare  to  disturb  people  who  were  taken 
up  with  affairs  of  such  national  importance — the  highly 
responsible  affairs  of  the  revolution. 

Doctor  Berg,  playing  with  his  silver  pencil,  repeated: 

*.*What  do  you  wish,  comrade?" 


150  What  Never  Happened 

Misha,  conscious  of  the  necessity  of  saying  something, 
flushed  deeply  and  stammered,  without  looking  at  Doc- 
tor Berg,  forcing  out  the  words : 

"I — I — I — would  like  to  do  some  work." 

* '  Yes  ? "  said  Doctor  Berg.    ' '  Well  ? ' ' 

•*I— I— would  Uke  to—" 

''Well?" 

"I  would  like  to — in  the  fighting  organization," 

Vera  Andreyevna  paused  in  her  pacing.  Doctor  Berg, 
still  fingering  his  pencil,  and  not  a  bit  surprised,  no 
more  than  if  the  matter  were  a  daily  occurrence,  fa- 
miliar and  tiresome,  said  drily: 

"Why  particularly  in  the  fighting  organization?" 

Some  one  knocked  at  the  door.  The  gloomy  comrade 
with  straight  hair  like  a  deacon's,  whom  Misha  had 
seen  in  the  anteroom,  entered.  He  beckoned  silently  to 
Doctor  Berg,  who  gave  his  shoulders  a  shrug  of  annoy- 
ance. 

"I'll  be  back  at  once.    Pardon  me,  comrade." 

Misha  remained  alone  with  Vera  Andreyevna.  He 
felt  she  had  him  under  observation.  The  affair  now 
seemed  not  only  criminal  and  audacious,  but  even 
absurd.  He  could  not  comprehend  how  he  had  dared 
to  hope  that  he  was  worthy  of  serving  the  revolution, 
how  he  had  dared  to  overlook  tlie  fact  that  it  was 
ridiculous  for  an  eighteen-year-old  boy  to  ask  admit- 
tance to  the  fighting  organization.  Besides,  he  did  not 
feel  at  ease.  He  was  ashamed  of  his  embroidered 
blouse,  fearing  Vera  Andreyevna  might  think  it  out 
of  place. 

"Are  you  a  student?"  Vera  Andreyevna  asked  after 
a  pause. 

' '  Yes, ' '  Misha  almost  whispered. 


.What  Never  Happened  151 

"How  old  are  you?" 

"Flunked,"  flashed  through  Misha  s  mind,  and  he 
answered  in  a  barely  audible  voice. 

"Going  on  my  ninteenth  year." 

Vera  Andreyevna  looked  at  him  thoughtfully.  His 
fresh  ruddy  face  was  so  youthful,  his  blue  eyes  so  fine, 
and  he  was  so  full  of  young,  unspent  energy,  that  she 
felt  sorry.  With  unwonted,  almost  motherly  tenderness, 
she  sat  down  on  a  chair  near  him  and  said  gently: 

"Listen.  Why  do  you  want  to  work  in  the  fighting 
organization?  Is  there  no  other  work?  You  can  be 
useful  anywhere.  There  is  oppression  and  poverty 
everywhere,"  she  sighed,  "poverty  everywhere.  Take 
an  interest  in  the  workingman,  go  to  the  peasants,  come 
to  know  them.  The  fighting  work  will  not  run  away 
from  you." 

Misha  was  touched.  He  almost  felt  like  crying,  and 
looked  gratefully  at  her  haggard  face. 

"Well,  of  course,  I  will  obey  the  committee." 

Doctor  Berg  entered  the  room  quietly : 

"The  devil  take  it!  Barricades  in  Moscow!  Some 
one  must  go  doAvn  there,"  he  said  angrily  to  Vera  An- 
dreyevna, as  if  she  were  responsible  for  the  Moscow  up- 
rising.    Suddenly  he  turned  his  attention  to  Misha. 

"All  right.  We  will  investigate.  We're  too  busy  to- 
day. Come  in  Saturday. ' '  He  nodded  as  if  to  indicate 
that  the  interview  was  at  an  end.     Misha  rose. 

"Barricades  in  Moscow.  That's  where  the  revolu- 
tion is, ' '  flashed  through  his  mind.  *  *  He  says  somebody 
must  go  down.  My  God,  if  only  I  could!  Why 
shouldn't  I?"  In  a  guilty,  pleading  voice,  embarrassed 
and  afraid  of  a  refusal,  he  said :     ' 

"Pardon  me.     I  should  like — " 


152  .What  Never  Happened 

"What?" 

* '  Perhaps — I  could  go  to  Moscow  ? ' ' 

Doctor  Berg  looked  at  him  attentively  and  thought  a 
while. 

"You?    Ahem.    AVliat's  your  name?" 

"Mikhail  Bolotov." 

"Bolotov?  Are  you  a  brother  of  Andrey  Nikolaye- 
vich?" 

"Yes,  yes,  indeed,  I'm  his  brother,"  Misha  replied 
hastily. 

Berg  and  Vera  exchanged  glances. 

"When  could  you  go?" 

"Go?    When?     Now— this  minute." 

Vera  Andreyevna  sighed  and  said  irresolutely: 

"Why  he?  Do  you  think  Andrey  Nikolayevich  will 
approve?    We  could  find  some  one  else." 

* '  No,  no.  Please.  Andriusha  will  be  very,  very  glad. 
Oh,  please.     I  will  go,"  Misha  interjected. 

An  hour  later  Misha  received  his  Party  pass-words, 
and  was  entrusted  with  a  secret  mission  to  his  brother. 
When  he  came  out  into  the  street,  the  night  was  well 
advanced.  On  the  lively  Nevsky  Prospect  blue  electric 
lamps  were  throwing  a  dazzling  light.  Above  them  the 
sky  was  as  black  as  ink  and  the  stars  were  hidden. 

"In  Moscow  there  are  barricades,"  Misha  repeated 
fervently.  "In  Moscow  there's  Andriusha,  and  I'm  go- 
ing to  Moscow — on  a  mission  from  the  committee.  Yes, 
on  a  mission  from  the  committee.  How  splendidly 
everything  had  turned  out.  Here  it  was,  the  great  revo- 
lution ! "  He  looked  at  his  watch  and  ran  to  the  Niko- 
layev  railroad  station. 


CHAPTER  XX 

AT  Doctor  Berg's  advice,  Misha,  in  the  interests 
of  "secrecy,"  left  his  train  at  the  Likhoslavl 
station  and  took  the  Viazma  train.  After  a 
wait  of  five  endless  hours  in  Viazma,  he  left  at  night  for 
Moscow.  Early  in  the  morning  the  train  stopped  sud- 
denly at  Golitzin. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,  the  train  is  not  going  any 
farther.  All  out,  please,"  announced  the  snow-covered 
conductor,  going  through  the  coaches. 

"Why  isn't  it  going  farther?"  Misha  demanded, 
blocking  the  conductor's  way.  The  thought  that  he 
might  not  reach  Moscow  that  day  sent  a  chill  through 
him. 

"Because  it  won't  go,"  the  conductor  replied  and 
turned  the  handle  of  the  door. 

"For  God's  sake,  I  really  must  get  there,"  Misha 
pleaded. 

The  conductor  looked  around  timidly. 

"The  strike  committee  has  ordered  us  to  stop." 

The  drowsy  passengers  were  leaving  the  cars,  grum- 
bling and  cursing.  Their  breath  formed  a  white  cloud 
of  steam  in  the  frosty  air.  In  Golitzin  everything  was 
as  usual,  as  peaceful  as  though  there  were  no  barricades 
in  Moscow.  There  was  a  clatter  of  dishes  in  the  sta- 
tion buffet.  At  the  window  the  telegraph  operator 
worked  tirelessly  at  his  apparatus.  The  young  station- 
master  paced  the  platform,  plucking  his  little  beard. 
Misha  ran  over  to  him : 

153 


154  What  Never  Happened 

"Please — how  can  I  get  to  Moscow?" 

The  station-master  waved  his  hand  irritably. 

"How  do  I  know?  Don 't  bother  me.  Is  it  my  fault ? 
There  was  a  telegram  along  the  line.  The  whole  road 
is  on  strike." 

' '  AVhat  shall  I  do  ? "  Misha  thought  despairingly.  He 
pushed  his  way  to  the  buffet,  where  he  gulped  down  a 
glass  of  tasteless,  scalding-hot  tea.  "I  must  get  to 
Moscow.  1  can't  turn  back.  It  would  be  a  shame.  The 
comrades,  Andriusha,  are  fighting  in  Moscow,  and  I  must 
stick  here,  in  this  damned  Golitzin.  No,  impossible !  I 
must  go.  But  how?  Surely  not  on  foot?  Why  not 
hire  a  team  ? ' ' 

He  paid  his  bill  hurriedly,  ran  outside,  looked  for  the 
station-master's  cap  with  its  red  band,  saw  it,  and  ac- 
costed him  again. 

"What  do  you  want?     I've  told  you  already — '' 

"But  it's  extremely  important.  For  God's  sake,  tell 
me  what  to  do.     Can  I  get  horses?     I  will  pay — " 

The  perplexed  station-master  flung  out  his  hands. 

"Horses?  To  Moscow?  I  don't  know.  Wait."  He 
became  sympathetic.  "There  is  a  locomotive  on  the 
emergency  track.  It's  going  to  Moscow.  Ask  them. 
Perhaps,  they'll  take  you  along.  But  I  doubt  it." 
Turning  on  his  heels,  he  went  into  the  station-master's 
room. 

Misha  ran  to  the  emergency  track,  jumping  over  the 
rails  and  leaving  footprints  in  the  downy  snow.  A 
heavy  freight  locomotive  was  getting  up  steam.  Two 
men,  black  with  soot,  were  working  on  the  platform. 
"My  God,  they  won't  take  me!"  Misha  thought  appre- 
hensively. 

"What  do  you  want?"  asked  the  black  fireman  in 


What  Never  Happened  155 

an  unfriendly  tone,  as  Misha  stopped  breathlessly  near 
the  locomotive. 

''Gentlemen,  is  this  locomotive  going  to  Moscow?" 

"If  you  know  too  much,  you'll  get  old  too  soon." 

"But — I  was  told — "  Misha  began  timidly,  with  tears 
in  his  voice  and  raising  his  excited  ruddy  face.  * '  I  must 
go  to  Moscow  on  very  important  business.  Very.  My 
only  hope  lies  in  you." 

"What's  your  business  in  Moscow?" 

Misha  was  embarrassed.  He  did  not  dare  to  entrust 
to  a  stranger  the  fact  that  he  was  a  member  of  the  Party 
and  was  going  on  a  revolutionary  mission,  and  it  was 
difficult  to  find  an  innocent  reason.  The  fireman  was 
looking  at  him  with  a  fixed  unfriendly  gaze,  waiting  for 
a  reply. 

"Oh,  well,  I'll  take  a  chance.  There's  no  way  out 
anyway."  Misha  tossed  his  curly  head  and  said  in  a 
choking  voice : 

"There  is  an  uprising  in  Moscow." 

"WeU,  have  you  got  a  godmother  there?" 

"For  Christ's  sake,  take  me  along." 

"Take  you  along?  You're  too  simple.  Get  out  of 
here  while  there's  a  piece  of  you  left." 

The  whistle  blew  shrilly.  The  locomotive  would  start 
in  a  second.  In  a  panic  at  losing  his  last  and  only  hope, 
he  caught  on  to  the  handle  of  the  platform. 

"For  God's  sake!  I — I — I'm  from  the  fighting  or- 
ganization. ' ' 

The  middle-aged  engineer  with  his  grey  moustache 
looked  down  and  observed  Misha  curiously. 

"From  the  fighting  organization?" 

"Yes,  yes." 

"You?    Have  you  a  revolver?" 


156  What  Never  Happened 

"A  revolver?"  Misha  asked,  dazed  by  the  question. 

"Yes,  a  revolver." 

"No,  I  have  no  revolver." 

The  engineer  smiled  deri«ively. 

"A  fine  revolutionist!  Well,  God  be  with  you,  climb 
up,"  he  added  suddenly  in  a  kindly  tone  and  offered 
Misha  his  hand.  Misha  could  hardly  believe  his  ears, 
as  he  climbed  into  the  locomotive  and  sat  down  unob- 
trusively on  a  heap  of  coals.  Now  he  had  no  doubt  that 
the  locomotive  belonged  to  the  committee,  and  the  engi- 
neer and  his  helper,  as  well  as  the  station-master  and  the 
conductor,  were  excellent  folks,  revolutionists,  terrorists, 
perhaps. 

"They  shall  see  that  I,  too,  am  a  devoted  member  of 
the  Party,"  he  thought,  impatiently  waiting  for  the 
whistle  to  blow.    The  fireman  bent  over  the  lever. 

"Shall  we  start,  Yegor  Kuzmich?" 

"What  else  shall  we  do?    Plant  cabbages?" 

The  whistle  blew  again  shrilly.  The  locomotive 
started  slowly,  as  if  unwilling  to  be  on  its  way.  Golitzin 
passed,  the  red  cap,  the  platform,  the  station  buffet  and 
the  operator  bending  over  his  apparatus.  Ahead  of 
them,  between  blue-white  snow-drifts,  stretched  the  nar- 
row roadbed.  The  air  began  to  smell  of  hot  smoke.  A 
frosty  wind  beat  against  their  cheeks.  Misha  was  cold, 
but  suffered  in  silence,  afraid  of  irritating  the  engineer. 
"How  surprised  Andriusha  will  be  when  I  tell  him 
about  my  trip,  and  how  glad  he'll  be  that  the  road  has 
gone  on  strike!  How  splendid,  and  what  a  fine  man 
Yegor  Kuzmich  is,"  he  thought,  swinging  his  arms  to 
warm  up. 

"Are  you  cold?"  the  fireman  asked,  smiling. 


What  Never  Happened  157 

**No,  that's  all  right,"  Misha  replied  bravely,  though 
his  teeth  were  chattering. 

*'Sit  down  near  the  tender.    We. are  not  cold." 

Misha  moved  over  to  the  tender  and  soon  warmed  up. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later,  to  the  accompaniment  of 
the  thundering  wheels  and  intermittent  whistle,  Misha 
was  relating  all  the  Party  secrets  known  to  him,  who  he 
was  and  why  he  was  going  to  the  committee  in  Moscow. 

"It's  nothing  that  I  have  no  revolver,"  he  explained 
with  a  serious  face.  "I  shall  be  on  the  barricades  just 
the  same.  I've  made  up  my  mind  to,  and  when  I  make 
up  my  mind  to  a  thing,  I  do  it.  I  think  one  must  first 
decide  what  one  can  and  what  one  cannot  do.  The  revo- 
lution is  no  joke.  If  you  can't  do  fighting  work,  you 
needn't  undertake  it.     I  think  it's  dishonest  to." 

Yegor  Kuzmich,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  running 
rails,  only  lifting  them  to  glance  at  the  monometer  oc- 
casionally, gave  Misha  close  attention ;  and  it  was  impos- 
sible to  tell  whether  or  not  he  approved  of  all  he  said. 
Misha  very  much  wanted  to  ask  why  the  locomotive  was 
going  alone,  with  no  cars  behind  it,  to  Moscow.  Deep  in 
his  soul  he  had  no  doubt  that  Yegor  Kuzmich  was  also 
hastening  to  the  barricades. 

The  locomotive  rushed  along  at  full  speed,  gave  one 
last  despairing  whistle,  and  suddenly  came  to  a  stop 
in  the  fields,  half  a  verst  from  Moscow. 

"Well,  good-bye,  young  man."  And  Yegor  Kuzmich 
slapped  Misha  on  the  back,  "Take  care,  don't  put  your 
head  in  the  noose  before  father  does.  We're  here.  Get 
out." 

Misha  was  sorry  to  part  with  his  friends.  Secretly,  he 
dreaded  solitude.    But  he  jumped  out  into  the  snow- 


158  What  Never  Happened 

drift,  fell  on  his  hands  and  all  wet  and  dirty,  black  with 
soot  and  covered  with  snow,  he  made  his  way  past  the 
Vagankov  Cemetery  to  the  deserted  Zvenigorod  Road. 
To  his  great  disappointment,  there  were  no  barricades  in 
sight. 

The  weather  was  very  cold  and  he  met  few  people. 
But  the  stores  were  open  and  he  saw  no  patrols.  In 
spite  of  Dr.  Berg's  directions,  he  was  unable  to  find  the 
Gargarin  Alley.  He  did  not  dare  to  ask  anybody  the 
way,  and  wandered  about  aimlessly  for  a  long  time,  sur- 
prised and  indignant  that  he  saw  no  revolutionists  and 
no  red  banners.  It  was  already  growing  dark  when  he 
came  to  Sivtzov  Vrazhek  Street.  After  wandering  about 
for  another  half  hour  he  suddenly  came  upon  the  house 
he  was  looking  for. 

He  rang  the  bell,  and  waited  a  long  time,  but  all  was 
silent.  He  rang  again.  Still  silence.  After  ringing  a 
third  time  and  waiting,  he  had  about  given  up  hope  when 
a  pert  maid  in  white  cap  and  apron  appeared  on  the 
threshold : 

**Gone.    They're  all  gone.    You  needn't  ring.'* 

Misha's  heart  fell  within  him.  Who  was  gone? 
Gone  where?  How  could  that  be?  These  were  the 
Party  quarters.  How  would  he  find  Andriusha?  Im- 
possible.    He  looked  at  the  maid  irresolutely. 

"It's  impossible.     I  have  important  business." 

''Indeed?  That's  no  reason.  I  told  you,  they're  all 
gone.    A  good  many  of  you  are  wandering  about  now." 

She  banged  the  door  indignantly.  Misha  walked  away 
slowly  and  sadly.  "What  shall  I  do  now?"  he  thought 
in  despair,  as  he  wandered  aimlessly  about  Moscow.  In 
the  park,  the  birches — those  fairy  trees — ^were  glistening 
with  snow  crystals  in  the  sun.    Misha,  crushed  by  his 


Wliat  Never  Happened  159 

failure,  kept  looking  for  at  least  the  remains  of  a  bar- 
ricade, for  at  least  some  trace  of  an  uprising. 

"The  road  has  gone  on  a  strike.  Surely  there  is  an 
uprising  in  Moscow,"  he  kept  repeating,  almost  at  the 
point  of  tears  because  he  had  not  fulfilled  his  mission, 
could  not  find  Andriusha,  and  saw  no  fighting  in  Mos- 
cow. But  on  turning  into  Tverskaya  Street  he  heard  to 
his  right,  from  the  Srietenka  Street  side,  a  distant,  barely 
audible  crackling.  He  did  not  believe  his  own  ears,  and 
stopped  to  listen,  holding  his  breath.  But  again,  this 
time  more  distinctly,  as  if  just  around  the  corner,  he 
heard  a  short  volley  of  shots.  "  Oh  !  Oh !  Oh !  Our 
sins!"  said  a  passing  merchant,  took  off  his  hat  and 
crossed  himself.     A  Cossack  patrol  rode  by  at  top  speed. 

''Thank  God,  here  they  are,  the  barricades,"  Misha 
concluded  without  hesitation,  and  ran  happily  to 
Srietenka  Street.  On  Petrovka  and  Dmitrevka  Streets 
there  was  not  a  soul,  and  the  stores  were  locked.  He 
hurried  along  the  middle  of  the  road  over  the  snow, 
afraid  he  might  come  too  late,  and  the  shooting  would  be 
over  and  he  would  not  find  the  barricade  and  would  be 
unable  to  help  in  saving  it.  Crossing  a  wide  boulevard, 
he  ran  into  the  Golovin  Alley  and  stopped  like  a  statue. 
About  twenty  yards  away  a  handful  of  men  in  fur  jackets 
were  clinging  to  a  snow  barricade  and  shooting  towards 
Srietenka  Street.  Forgetting  he  had  no  anus  and  was 
a  stranger  to  the  comrades,  thinking  of  nothing  except 
that  in  front  of  him  was  the  red  banner  of  the  revolution 
he  ran  forward  along  the  alley.  Suddenly,  as  if  at  a 
command,  the  men  on  the  barricade  ceased  shooting. 
Misha  saw  people  running  in  a  close  mass.  He  looked  at 
them  in  surprise  and  fear,  not  understanding  their  flight. 

"My  God,  they  are  retreating!"  the  terrible  thought 


160  What  Never  Happened 

flashed  through  his  mind.  Ignorant  of  the  cause  of 
their  retreat  and  of  what  he  himself  was  doing,  conscious 
only  that  the  barricade  was  being  abandoned  to  the 
army,  he  shouted  in  a  ringing  voice :  "Forward!  For 
land  and  freedom!"  And  shouting  steadily  he  ran  to 
meet  the  revolutionary  squad.  Without  looking  back 
to  see  whether  anybody  was  following  him,  he  climbed 
up  the  barricade.  A  few  shots  rang  out  from  the  direc- 
tion of  Srietenka  Street.  One  of  the  running  revolution- 
ists looked  back.  He  saw  a  rosy-faced  young  student, 
bareheaded,  lying  against  the  ruined  barricade,  his  face 
up-turned,  and  his  wide-open  blue  eyes  gazing  fixedly 
and  wonderingly  at  the  sky.  The  man  did  not  stop  to 
find  out  who  the  stranger  was,  but  turned  the  corner  and 
ran  to  join  his  comrades. 


PABT  II 

CHAPTER  I 

THE  Moscow  uprising  was  crushed.  The  dele- 
gates of  the  Workmen's  Council  had  been  ar- 
rested, and  the  soldiers'  revolts  drowned  in 
blood.  The  Government  was  the  victor.  But  faith  in 
the  revolution  was  still  so  strong,  and  distrust  of  the 
Government  so  deep-rooted,  the  feeling  that  significant 
events  were  about  to  take  place  so  acute  that  neither 
Party  members,  ministers,  members  of  the  fighting  or- 
ganization, workers,  soldiers,  nor  any  one  of  those  who 
had  participated  in  the  furious  merciless  battle,  had 
any  doubt  that  on  the  morrow  the  last  and 
most  tremendous  wave  would  break  ultimately,  a  na- 
tional armed  revolt  of  all  Russia,  The  death  of  Plehve, 
Red  Sunday,  the  explosion  of  the  4th  of  February, 
the  revolt  on  the  battleship  Potiomkin,  the  general  strike 
of  the  6th  of  October,  and  the  Moscow  barricades  seemed 
only  a  majestic  beginning,  a  solemn  prelude  to  those 
inevitable,  triumphant  events  which  were  bound  to  come. 
And  the  Government  was  secretly  devising  ' '  means  of 
action,"  was  gathering  the  army,  was  buying  spies,  fill- 
ing the  prisons  and  erecting  gallows;  while  the  revolu- 
tionists were  openly  printing  pamphlets,  preparing 
bombs,  distributing  arms,  organizing  a  peasant  army, 
and  demanding  a  constitutional  assembly.  Nobody  con- 
sidered that  the  revolution  had  already  been  crushed, 

161 


162  What  Never  Happened 

In  the  autumn  months  the  Party  committee  had  writ- 
ten and  printed  a  proclamation  and  sent  out  agents  all 
over  Russia.  These  agents,  distinguished  revolutionists, 
explained  at  many  meetings  the  significance  of  the  Party 
convention  that  had  been  called  to  decide  the  fate  of  the 
revolution,  and  invited  the  comrades  to  elect  delegates. 
Though  the  Party  was  united  by  a  committee  and  bound 
together  by  bloody  ties,  still  it  lacked  that  internal  unity 
which  instils  strength  into  a  secret  organization.  Three 
factions  were  continuously  wrangling,  and  this  was  the 
source  of  exasperating  outbursts. 

One  of  the  factions,  which  had  made  a  study  of  the 
peasant  and  labour  questions  and  the  industrial  condi- 
tions in  Russia,  demanded  the  socialization  of  land. 
Another  faction,  supporting  itself  upon  the  same  learned 
books,  demanded  the  socialization  of  shop  and  factories. 
The  third  demanded  neither  one  nor  the  other,  but  an 
obligatory  redemption  of  the  land.  And  the  right, 
the  left,  the  committee,  the  Party,  Arseny  Ivanovich, 
Doctor  Berg,  Vera  Andreyevna,  all  looked  upon  these 
differences  as  of  decided  importance.  They  did  not  see 
that  the  revolution  had  been  defeated  and  that  they  were 
not  destined  to  gain  the  upper  hand,  nor,  even  if  they 
should  gain  the  upper  hand,  that  the  rearrangement  of 
Russia  would  not  depend  on  their  conscious  will,  but  on 
a  thousand  unknown,  unforeseen  and  inevitable  causes. 
They  sincerel}^  believed  that  the  Party  discussions  as  to 
how  to  divide  the  land  equitably  and  reconstruct  Russia 
would  hasten  and  strengthen  the  revolution  and  decide 
the  future  of  a  land  of  a  hundred  million  inhabitants. 

The  convention  that  the  Partj'-  was  convoking  at  the 
cost  of  untold  sacrifice,  labour  and  danger,  was  to  decide 
the  all-Russian  land  problem,  much  as  if  the  crew  of  a 


What  Never  Happened  163 

ship  in  a  storm  should  abandon  the  steering-wheel,  lower 
the  sails,  extinguish  the  lights  and  forget  the  plight  of 
the  ship,  and  plunge  into  a  heated  discussion  as  to  what 
port  to  steer  their  boat  to  after  the  wind  had  died  out 
and  the  waves  had  quieted  down.  But  no  one  of  the 
comrades  understood  the  fruitlessness  of  their  senseless 
discussions.  In  great  hope  and  impatience,  all  awaited 
that  historic  event — the  Party  convention. 

It  was  to  assemble  secretly  in  the  Party  hotel  in  one 
of  the  suburbs  of  St.  Petersburg.  A  large  room  papered 
in  pink  and  pervaded  by  a  sour  smell  of  dirt  was  the 
ofifice,  presided  over  by  Zalkind  and  two  assistants,  young 
men  with  severe-looking  faces,  who  busily  examined  the 
delegates'  credentials  when  they  arrived  and  made  up 
the  "itineraries"  for  their  secret  return.  In  the  woods 
outside  the  hotel  an  armed  guard  kept  vigil  day  and 
night,  for  protection  against  the  police.  When  Bolotov, 
tired  and  frozen,  wearing  the  same  fur  jacket  in  which 
he  had  fought  in  Moscow,  entered  the  cold  hall,  he 
paused  involuntarily.  From  oil  lamps,  hanging  on 
the  black  ceiling,  a  dim  light  fell  on  the  big,  crowded 
room.  In  the  intermissions  between  sessions  voices 
buzzed  simultaneously,  filling  the  stuffy  air  with  a  thick, 
hea'V'y  rumbling.  In  the  left  corner  a  little  consumptive- 
looking  bald  gentleman  with  a  curly  beard  was  engaged 
in  a  heated  discussion  with  Doctor  Berg.  Bolotov  recog- 
nized the  famous  Party  agitator,  Gennady  Genna- 
dievich.  On  the  right  side  of  the  room,  at  a  decrepit 
piano,  sat  a  very  young  blond  comrade  striking  the  worn 
keys  with  great  fervour,  head  thrown  back. 

"We  shall  fill  our  cartridges, 
To  the  guns  attach  the  bayonets  " 

sang  an  uneven  chorus  of  many  voic6s.     Bolotov  noticed 


164  What  Never  Happened 

a  pale,  slender  girl  with  black  hair.  Looking  straight 
ahead  with  dark,  rapt  eyes,  she  sang  the  hackneyed 
words  with  all  her  might.  To  her  they  had  not  lost 
their  vivifying  force. 

"Into  the  happy  land  of  freedom 
We  shall  boldly  make  our  way." 

The  pianist  finished  with  a  passionate  gesture  and 
arose  noisily  from  his  chair.  In  the  next  room  a  bell 
was  ringing  unceasingly.  The  intermission  was  over. 
The  session  had  opened. 

Immediately  a  few  dozen  men,  representing  a  few 
hundred  other  revolutionists  like  themselves,  began  to 
discuss  problems  that  they  knew  to  be  insoluble,  oblivious 
of  the  fact  that  self-denial,  readiness  to  give  their  lives 
and  devotion  to  the  revolution  gave  them  no  right  to 
direct  the  destinies  of  Russia,  just  as  this  right  was  not 
given  by  machine-guns,  prayers  for  the  autocracy  and 
faithfulness  to  it.  They  were  oblivious  of  the  fact  that 
their  decision,  if  not  upheld  by  the  people,  would  in- 
variably remain  on  paper  only,  just  as  the  orders  of  the 
ministers  would,  if  they  were  not  upheld  by  bayonets. 
And  most  important  of  all,  they  were  oblivious  of  the 
fact  that  they  were  not  called  upon  to  direct  the  revolu- 
tion, that  they  were  not  its  masters,  but  its  obedient, 
impotent  servants.  And  having  gathered  together  from 
over  hundreds  and  thousands  of  versts  away,  they  were 
naively  convinced  that  the  majority  of  votes  cast  at  their 
convention,  the  defeat  of  the  left  or  the  victory  of  the 
right,  could  change  the  fate  of  Russia,  or  retard  the  lofty 
course  of  the  revolution,  or  dry  up  its  sources.  Not  one 
of  them  saw  they  were  as  powerless  to  do  this  as  words  are 
powerless  to  change  life. 


What  Never  Happened  165 

The  question  of  an  uprising  was  in  order.  Though 
everybody  could  see  that  the  question  was  futile  and 
that  neither  the  convention,  nor  the  Party,  nor  the  com- 
mittee could  order  a  popular  revolution,  or  appoint  the 
time  for  it,  and  though  every  one  of  the  delegates  knew 
from  his  own  ant-like  work  that  the  people  did  not  want 
or  did  not  dare  to  revolt,  still  all  began  to  argue  heatedly, 
and  the  convention  was  immediately  divided  into  two 
factions.  The  comrades  sincerely  believed  that  their 
arguments,  discussions,  votes,  and  general  excitement, 
were  of  inestimable  service  to  the  Party  and  to  Russia. 

The  first  speaker  was  Gennady  Gennadievich.  He 
straightened  himself  up  to  his  full  height,  which  made 
hirp.  taller  and  more  erect,  and  began  in  the  firm  voice 
of  a  man  who  knows  his  carefully  thought-out  words  to 
be  true: 

* '  Comrades !  We  are  called  upon  here  in  this  author- 
ized convention  to  decide  a  momentous  question.  We 
must  ask  ourselves,  what  would  be  the  fate  of  a  delib- 
erately planned  uprising  if  such  should  take  place.  I 
think  we  are  faced  with  both,  chances  of  success  and  rea- 
sons to  be  pessimistic.  Let  us  get  down  to  the  concrete 
situation.  The  government  machine  is  entirely  disor- 
ganized, the  bourgeoisie  is  partly  organized,  partly  dis- 
organized; the  great  masses  of  the  people  are  dissatis- 
fied; the  impoverished  peasantry  is  famished  and  des- 
perate. On  the  one  hand  a  weakened  power  of  resist- 
ance, on  the  other  a  readiness  for  decisive  action  and  an 
immense  power  for  offensive  action." 

Gennady  Gennadievich  paused  and  continued  in  an 
excited  voice,  bringing  each  word  out  distinctly. 

"But,  comrades,  we  must  not  overlook  the  negative 
side.    For  the  organization  of  a  movement  to  be  sue- 


166  AVliat  Never  Happened 

cessful  it  is  necessary  to  comprehend  all  its  problems. 
The  peasantry  is  waiting  for  an  agrarian  upheaval,  and 
we,  the  conscious  minority,  have  the  right  and  the  power 
and  the  obligation  to  exert  all  our  creative  ability  on 
the  ground  that  has  been  prepared  by  a  powerful  move- 
ment. "We  must  immediately  begin  practical  prepara- 
tions for  the  organization  of  a  popular  armed  uprising. 
This  is  the  most  important,  the  essential  problem  of  the 
moment." 

A  youth  of  about  twenty,  a  delegate  from  the  Volga 
region,  a  ruddy,  round-faced  seminary  student,  who  was 
standing  next  to  Bolotov,  punctuated  the  speaker's 
words  with  loud  applause : 

"Bravo!     Exactly!     Immediately!" 

Gennady  Gennadievich  coughed,  and,  heartened  by  the 
applause,  certain  of  his  usual  brilliant  success,  raised 
his  voice  and  began  to  gesticulate  animatedly: 

"Our  first  practical  aim  must  be* the  acquisition  of 
special  military  knowledge  by  the  greatest  number  of 
our  comrades.  Our  second  practical  aim  must  be  the 
organization  of  local  military  cadres.  The  purpose  of 
these  cadres  is  the  following:  first,  to  teach." 

Gennady  Gennadievich  spoke  sincerely,  and  every- 
thing he  said  was  clear  and  important  to  the  partici- 
pants of  the  convention.  Bolotov  believed  that  Gennady 
Gennadievich  himself,  and  Vera  Andreyevna,  and 
Doctor  Berg,  and  the  ruddy  seminary-student,  and 
every  one  who  listened  to  the  words  about  an  armed  up- 
rising, were  ready  at  any  moment,  with  arms  in  their 
hands,  to  defend  a  barricade  and  to  die  defending  it. 
And  yet  he  was  bored.  Somehow  he  recalled  the  talk  of 
the  Austrian  military  staff  and  the  scientific  discussions 
of  Pfulil:     "Die  erste  kolonne  marschiert."    Had  Mos- 


What  Never  Happened  167 

cow  been  defeated  because  the  revolutibnists  had  not 
known  how  to  fight?  Had  the  army  been  victorious  be- 
cause he  was  not  a  military  man?  Had  Pronka  been 
killed  because  he  had  been  ignorant  of  tactics  and 
strategy?  Must  Konstantin  be  taught  special  sciences? 
Was  the  truth  there  in  that  hotel,  in  the  fact  that  they 
were  going  to  compose  the  best  recipe  for  making  a  pop- 
ular revolution  and  were  going  to  formulate  instructions 
for  fighting  at  the  barricades  ?  Only  a  few  hundred  had 
fought.  Why  hadn't  the  w^hole  of  Moscow  revolted? 
Because  there  were  no  cadres? 

"Fourth,  these  cadres  must  take  upon  themselves  the 
initiative  of  an  uprising  and  must  form  a  military- 
revolutionary  staff.     Then,  on  the  one  hand — 

Die  zweite  kolonne  marschiert,  Bolotov  thought,  smil- 
ing sadly  to  himself.  His  shoulders  drooping,  he  walked 
out  into  the  narrow,  dusty,  carpeted  hall.  The  head  of 
the  office,  Zalkind,  old,  wrinkled,  sickly  looking,  yet  all  ex- 
cited and  happy,  was  pacing  the  hall. 

"Well,  quite  a  convention!     Don't  you  think  so?" 

Bolotov  looked  at  him  silently.  "Don't  you  think  so? 
Don't  you  think  it's  excellent?  And  Gennady!  He's 
an  orator !     A.  Danton ! ' ' 

Zalkind  opened  the  door  part  way  and  listened 
greedily. 

"Bravo!  Bravo!  Wonderful!"  He  turned  to  Bo- 
lotov. 

Bolotov  went  out  into  the  street,  his  shoulders  still 
drooping.  The  snow  sparkled  like  silver  and  weighted 
down  the  fir-trees.  A  tired  man  on  guard  was  asleep  in 
front  of  the  door.  Up  in  the  frosty  heavens  the  Big 
Dipper  sparkled  indifferently. 


CHAPTER  II 

DURING  the  conversation  Andrey  Bolotov  ex- 
perienced the  alarm  that  a  member  of  a  united, 
loving  family  experiences  when  he  knows  that 
his  brothers  have  been  lost  in  the  dark  of  the  night. 
The  iMoscow  bamcades  had  made  a  deep,  indelible  scar, 
as  if  in  the  scattered  bodies  on  the  snow  Bolotov  had  left 
a  part  of  his  self,  of  his  double  life.  The  zealous  con- 
cern of  a  property-owner,  which  he  had  felt  abroad,  the 
severity  of  a  man  with  power,  the  cautiousness  of  a 
careful  owner,  had  all  gone  for  ever.  It  was  strange  now 
to  recall  that  naive  period,  when  the  Party  with  its  con- 
ventions, barricades,  committees,  excitements  and  alarms 
appeared  to  him  like  a  flourishing  estate ;  when  he 
had  looked  upon  himself  as  the  most  devoted,  most  use- 
ful, most  self-sacrificing  of  its  numerous  members ;  when, 
he  now  had  to  admit,  he  sat  in  judgment  and  rendered 
decisions  and  verdicts.  It  was  strange  to  believe  that 
he  had  calculated  his  forces  lil^e  a  miser  and  guarded  his 
own  life  in  the  name  of  the  cause.  But  strangest  of  all 
was  what  he  saw  at  the  convention.  He  saw  that  the 
delegates,  young  and  old;  terrorists,  rank-and-filers, 
moderates,  extremists  were  doing  what  he  had  been  doing 
all  his  life  and  what  he  now  considered  mistaken  and  un- 
necessary, making  decisions,  passing  judgment,  being 
merciful,  conserving  their  strength  in  the  name  of  the 
Party,  and  trying  to  divert  the  revolution  in  the  name 
of  the  people.     He  could  not  see  any  value  in  their 

168 


What  Never  Happened  169 

labour.     It  was  as  if  the  rifles  and  machine-guns,  the 
bombs  and  the  blood  had  opened  his  eyes. 

Like  the  others,  he  did  not  realize  that  'the  Govern- 
ment had  come  out  victorious,  and  believed  that  tomor- 
row an  all-Russian  conflagration  would  break  out  and 
the  final  glorious  battle  take  place.  But  while  he  shared 
these  rosy  dreams,  he  did  not  close  his  eyes  to  the  painful 
fact  that  the  Moscow  barricades  had  taught  him  a  truth 
at  which  he  had  previously  guessed  only  vaguely. 
Now  he  comprehended  it  and  felt  it  with  his  whole  soul. 
He  had  learned  what  it  means  to  kill  and  to  die.  When 
he  had  entered  the  Party,  he  "had  been  at  a  loss  to  solve 
the  problems  of  violence.  The  Party  dogmas  gave  the 
answer  that  stilled  all  doubts  and  satisfied  him,  as  they 
had  Volodya,  Doctor  Berg,  Arseny  Ivanovich  and  Vera 
Andreyevna.  He  did  not  ask  himself  what  terror  was. 
Terror  was  being  discussed  in  the  newspapers,  was  being 
urged  by  proclamation,  was  approved  by  the  Party  pro- 
gram. As  a  member  of  the  Party  and  a  revolutionist 
he  could  not  and  thought  perhaps  he  had  no  right  to  re- 
examine a  problem  that  had  long  been  decided.  Be- 
cause of  this  he  had  not  been  able  to  grasp  the  meaning 
of  terror,  the  hidden,  terrible  meaning  of  permissible 
violence.  And  now  he  felt  sorry  for  himself,  sorry  for 
those  who,  without  understanding  what  it  meant  to  kill, 
were  calling  to  a  "bloody  battle."  The  barricades  had 
also  taught  him  that  it  was  impossible  to  direct  the  revo- 
lution, that  those  who  were  directing  it  were  only  obedi- 
ently following  the  mandates  of  the  people.  "When  he 
had  been  giving  secret  orders,  when  he  had  seen  the  de- 
votion of  his  subordinate  comrades,  and  had  not  doubted 
their  willingness  to  give  their  lives,  he  had  gradually  be- 
come accustomed  to  the  thought  that  he,  Audrey  Bolotov, 


170  "What  Never  Happened 

and  in  his  person  the  committee,  and  in  the  personnel  of 
the  committee  the  whole  Party,  were  directing  the  all- 
Russian  revolution.  He  had  believed  that  he  was  the 
builder  of  the  radiant  future  and  that  the  revolted  peo- 
ple would  hear  his  voice  and  would  take  the  road  that 
he  would  point  out.  Now  he  felt  depressed  that  he  had 
been  so  egregiously  led  astray. 

He  had  grown  thinner,  rougher,  and  had  discarded 
collar  and  coat.  A  similar  change  had  taken  place  in 
his  inward  being.  Witnessing  the  solemn  convention, 
hearing  the  impassioned  speeches  of  Gennady  Genna- 
dievich,  the  cold  discussion  of  Doctor  Berg,  the  tearful 
complaints  of  Vera  Andreyevna,  he  knew  firmly,  un- 
waveringly that  those  discussions  were  a  trackless  way. 
He  knew  that  his  comrades  would  discuss  either  the 
revolutionizing  of  Russia,  a  thing  that  was  not  in  their 
power,  or  unimportant  Party  details.  Those  noisy  de- 
bates, speeches  and  elections,  he  was  now  aware,  would 
not  build  up  the  Party  nor  crown  the  revolution  with 
success.  He  thought  of  Volodya  and  did  not  deem  his 
words  worthy  of  consideration,  perceiving  that  Volodya 
too  did  not  understand  death  nor  appreciate  the  grave 
responsibility  of  violence.  And  if  Arseny  Ivanovich, 
Doctor  Berg  and  Vera  Andreyevna  confined  themselves 
to  martial  words,  then  Volodya,  despising  the  chatter  of 
the  "Intellectuals,"  did  not  shrink  before  blood. 

However,  in  spite  of  such  thoughts  as  these  and 
though  he  felt  sorry  for  his  comrades,  Bolotov  at  the 
same  time  experienced  a  sense  of  joy,  of  a  soul  at  peace, 
as  if  he  had  finally  found  the  key  of  the  solution  of  the 
eternal,  insoluble  problem. 

Bolotov  spent  the  night  in  the  hotel  in  which  the  con- 
vention was  taking  place,  in  a  little  room  with  a  plank 


What  Never  Happened  171 

partition  for  a  wall.  The  room  smelled  of  lamp-oil  and 
some  other  sour,  indefinable  odour  that  choked.  Through 
a  slit  in  the  door  a  yellow  ray  of  light  leaked  in  from  the 
hall.  In  the  next  room  a  slow  conversation  was  going 
on.  Bolotov  listened  instinctively.  A  slow  dull  voice 
was  speaking  in  a  monotonous,  uninteresting  strain. 

*'The  thing  is  this.  Hm.  The  election  for  the  Duma 
is  approaching.  Hm.  Wliat  do  you  think,  Sanka,  will 
they  permit  the  election  or  not?" 

"To  the  devil,"  the  unseen  Sanka  replied  scornfully. 
** They '11  elect  head  hostlers." 

''Head  hostlers?" 

"Well,  don't  you  think  they  will?" 

A  bed  squeaked  behind  the  partition.  Some  one 
sighed  and  moved  in  his  bed.  A  moment  later  the  same 
slow  voice  drawled: 

"The  thing  is  this.  Hm.  And  I,  you  know — think 
■ — that  the  peasants  will  elect  membcx's  of  the  Left ! ' ' 

"  The  Left?     Nonsense." 

"I  think  so." 

"Why  do  you  think  so?" 

"Because." 

"Because?  You're  a  wise  man,  by  God!  Well,  if 
they  will,  the  Duma  will  be  disbanded. ' ' 

* '  Disbanded  ?  The  thing  is  this — this.  Let  them  shoot 
all  the  members  of  the  Duma.  The  more,  the  better. 
Hm." 

Some  one  sighed  behind  the  partition. 

* '  What  are  they  talking  about  ? ' '  Bolotov  opened  his 
eyes  lazily. 

"Let  them  shoot  them.  The  more,  the  better. 
What's  better?  Better  if  they  hang  all  the  Duma  mem- 
bers.    Then  the  peasants  would  understand — the  peas- 


172  What  Never  Happened 

ants  would  understand.  One  cannot  fight  single- 
handed.  ' ' 

Two  comrades'  passed  noisily  along  the  hall,  talking 
loudly.  Bolotov  heard  their  voices  distinctly  in  the  still- 
ness of  the  night : 

"Arseny  Ivanovich  knows,  I  tell  you.  You  listen  to 
me.     He  says  an  uprising — " 

*'When?" 

"In  the  spring,  of  course." 

*'In  the  spring?" 

*'And  what  did  you  think?  Over  in  our  parts  they're 
just  waiting  for  it.  I  tell  you,  among  us!  By  God! 
Just  let  the  committee  give  the  order." 

' '  Will  the  committee  accede  ? ' ' 

''Arseny  Ivanovich  says  why  not?  Listen,  in  our 
place — 

"An  uprising  in  the  spring — the  committee  give  the 
order."  Bolotov  smiled  involuntarily.  "And  sup- 
pose a  revolt  does  break  out?"  he  went  on  with  his 
thoughts.  "Military-revolutionary  cadres.  Staff  of  of- 
ficers. Die  erste  holonne  marschiert.  If  an  uprising,  a 
popular  revolt,  were  to  break  out,  then  we  shall  be  super- 
fluous in  all  probability.  We  urge  others  to  spill  blood 
— and  we  ourselves  ? ' ' 

The  light  in  the  hall  went  out.  Bolotov  raised  him- 
self in  bed,  threw  back  the  soiled  quilt  and  looked  into 
the  darkness  in  alarm.  Suddenly  those  annoying 
thoughts  which  had  been  ripening  within  him  and  of 
which  he  had  been  secretly  afraid,  burst  upon  his  soul 
again  with  irresistible  force.  Clearly  it  was  not  his 
vocation  to  lead  the  Party,  he  had  no  right  to  spare  his 
own  life.  The  blood  that  had  been  spilled  at  the  bar- 
ricades, the  blood  of  Skedelsky,  of  Pronka,  of  Roman 


What  Never  Happened  173 

Aleksieyevich,  of  Sliozkin  and  the  officer  of  dragoons, 
of  those  nameless  soldiers  whom  Vanya  had  killed  with 
his  vengeful  bomb,  did  not  demand  a  miserly  grudging 
sacrifice,  but  an  inspired,  enlightened  one.  So  far  as  the 
committee  and  the  Party  and  even  Russia  was  concerned, 
he  had  a  right  to  live,  to  await  the  inevitable  uprising, 
had  a  right  to  "prepare  the  revolution"  and  dispose  of 
Party  matters,  to  argue,  make  decisions,  and  cast  his 
vote ;  but  if  there  was  a  higher  and  truer  judgment ;  not 
the  judgment  of  Arseny  Ivanovich,  of  Doctor  Berg,  of 
the  Party  convention,  if  there  was  an  untold,  grateful 
sense  of  responsibility,  then  he  must  be  a  servant  of  the 
revolution  and  offer  himself  to  the  people.  Offer  his  im- 
mortal life.  As  soon  as  this  became  clear  to  him,  he 
felt  a  reverent  rapture,  as  if  a  heavy  load  had  fallen 
from  his  shoulders,  as  if  he  had  found  salutary  freedom. 

' '  Let  them  await  the  uprising.  Let  them  hope  for  the 
dissolution  of  the  Duma,"  he  thought  joyfully.  "I 
know  what  to  do.  I  can't  and  have  no  right  to  live.  Be 
it  terror.  Be  it  murder.  Be  it  crime.  Be  it  blood.  If 
there  is  truth  on  earth,  if  everything  in  life  is  not  sense- 
less and  false,  then  there  will  be  a  phantom  of  truth,  a 
shadow  of  justice  in  my  voluntary  death. ' '  Turning  his 
face  to  the  thin  partition,  which  smelt  of  glue,  he  soon 
slept,  a  care-free  happy  sleep. 

At  the  other  end  of  the  hall,  in  a  dirty  room  with 
muslin  curtains  at  the  windows  and  a  double  bed  with 
down  pillows,  the  "plenary"  meeting  of  the  committee 
was  taking  place.  The  only  one  missing  was  Arkady 
Rosenstern,  who  had  not  arrived  in  time  for  the  con- 
vention. For  the  last  few  months  Rosenstern  had  been 
"working"  on  the  Volga  and  had  been  coming  to  St. 
Petersburg  only  occasionally.    Arseny   Ivanovich   and 


17-1  What  Never  Happened 

Doctor  Berg  complained  loudly  of  his  long  absence.  Be- 
loved by  the  Party,  Rosenstern  upheld  the  weighty 
significance  of  their  decisions  and  enhanced  the  effective- 
ness of  their  words. 

After  they  had  gone  over  several  pressing  matters — 
the  purchase  of  arms,  the  report  of  the  international 
congress,  the  government  "expropriations,"  the  publi- 
cation of  a  new  paper  and  the  assassination  of  the  gov- 
ernor of  Moscow — the  comrades  at  midnight  took  up  the 
question  that  was  last  on  the  order  of  the  meeting,  the 
incident  that  had  occurred  between  the  military  organi- 
zation and  the  Union  of  the  Army.  This  incident  inter- 
ested the  higher  circles  of  the  Party  and  gave  food  for 
endless  discussion.  Its  substance  was  that  the  military 
organization  had  printed  a  proclamation  without  the 
knowledge  of  the  Union  of  the  Army,  while  the  right  to 
edit  all  "military"  proclamations  belonged,  according  to 
the  regulations,  to  the  Union.  The  significance  of  the 
affair  was  a  matter  of  principle  and  lay  in  a  question  of 
jurisdiction.  Has  the  military  organization  the  inde- 
pendent right  to  issue  proclamations  without  preliminary 
censorship  ? 

When  Bolotov  knocked  on  the  bolted  door  the  repre- 
sentative of  the  military  organization,  a  young,  hand- 
some student  with  curled  moustachios,  was  timidly  but 
heatedly  justifying  his  action  before  Arseny  Ivanovich. 

"But  Arseny  Ivanovich,  it's  so  simple.  Let  me  ex- 
plain. Why  should  we  have  no  right  to  issue  proclama- 
tions? The  organization  office  has  the  right,  the  Union 
of  the  Army  has  the  right,  any  district  committee  has  the 
right.  So  why  shouldn't  we  have  the  right?  Let  me 
explain.  Did  our  proclamation  contain  anything  con- 
trary to  the  Party?    Please  do  me  the  favour  to  look  it 


What  Never  Happened  175 

over  yourself.  It  is  very  bad  if  the  comrades  begin  to 
find  fault  with  every  little  thing." 

**Ah,  my  benefactor,"  Arseny  Ivanovieh  was  reply- 
ing expressively,  ' '  if  you  like  gooseberries,  you  must  also 
like  setting  your  teeth  on  edge.  Let's  see.  What  does 
the  constitution  say? 

'  *  What  is  the  constitution  ?  No,  I  mean,  what  has  the 
constitution  got  to  do  with  it?  I  am  talking  common 
sense. ' ' 

"Pardon  me,  Arseny  Ivanovieh,"  interrupted  Doctor 
Berg,  fixing  his  yellow-green  tie  and  not  looking  at  the 
student,  "if  you  refer  to  the  constitution,  I  must  tell 
you,  the  paragraph  in  point  may  have  a  double  com- 
mentary. According  to  the  sense  of  the  notes  to  the 
seventh  article — " 

"My  God,  is  all  this  really  so  important?"  thought 
Bolotov,  as  he  looked  over  the  crowded  smoke-filled 
room.  In  the  corner  at  the  window  he  noticed  to  his 
pleasure  a  friend  of  his  from  the  South,  Aliosha  Gruz- 
diev.  Gruzdiev  was  also  a  member  of  the  committee, 
but  seldom  took  part  in  their  meetings.  He  "worked" 
in  the  village,  like  one  of  the  ranks,  a  Party  worker,  and 
shunned  no  sort  of  work,  not  even  the  petty,  dirty  la- 
bour. He  was  tall,  had  thick  light  hair  and  an  open 
Russian  face,  and  he  avoided  heated  discussions.  Bolo- 
tov knew  him  and  loved  him. 

Bolotov  did  not  hear  the  commentaries  on  the  seventh 
article.  Arseny  Ivanovieh  saw  him,  smiled  at  him  in 
greeting,  and  said  to  the  student: 

' '  See  here,  my  benefactor,  we  will  think  it  over.  Yes, 
yes,  we  will  think  it  over.  We  can't  come  to  a  decision 
so  quickly.  In  due  time  we  will  notify  you.  Every- 
thing, my  benefactor,  must  be  done  slowly  and  wisely, 


176  What  Never  Happened 

very  wisel3^  We  have  a  great  deal  to  do.  We  can't 
take  care  of  everything.  You  know  the  proverb: 
Wheat  feeds  the  select  few,  while  rye  goes  to  everybody. ' ' 

From  the  instant  it  became  known  that  Bolotov  had 
been  fighting  at  the  barricades,  he  had  grown  in  the  re- 
spect of  his  comrades.  Even  Doctor  Berg,  who  had  been 
frankly  indignant  at  his  going  to  Moscow,  made  no  effort 
now  to  conceal  his  pleasure.  Bolotov 's  manliness,  his 
boldness  and  the  surprising  coincidence  that  had  led 
him  to  risk  his  life  on  an  equal  footing  with  the  name- 
less members  and  students,  gave  the  comrades  a  legal 
right  to  convince  themselves  and  others  that  even  if  the 
committee  had  not  been  directing  the  uprising,  still  it 
had  taken  part  in  it.  The  members  of  the  committee 
had  no  doubt  that  not  only  had  they  allowed  Bolotov  to 
go  to  Moscow,  but  had  even  authorized  him  to  do  so  in 
the  name  of  the  Party.  And  had  Bolotov  claimed  that 
this  was  not  so,  that  he  had  gone  without  their  permis- 
sion, even  against  their  wish,  they  would  have  been  sin- 
cerely surprised  and  even  incredulous. 

Bolotov  now  felt  that  his  proud  thoughts  would  sound 
strange  to  Arseny  Ivanovich  and  to  all  the  comrades 
that  had  not  faced  death.  No  one  would  understand 
him,  his  words  w^ould  sound  dishonest  and  insulting. 
The  killing  of  Sliozkin,  the  defeat  of  Volodya's  squad, 
the  desperate  battle  for  the  school-house,  the  days  of 
cruel,  yet  hazy  reality,  would  sound  to  them,  who  had 
not  taken  part  in  the  uprising,  like  nothing  more  than 
an  interesting  tale  of  the  barricade,  the  brief  account  of 
a  casual  observer.  He  felt  he  lacked  the  fiery  words  to 
tell  about  his  shaken  life  and  make  them  feel  what  he 
had  felt  with  the  same  acute  force.  He  wanted  to  re- 
main silent.    But  his  old  habit,  inbred  for  years,  of  not 


What  jSTever  Happened  177 

concealing  anything  in  the  committee,  overcame  his 
doubts.  All  were  waiting  for  him  to  say  something. 
Paling  slightly  he  said  with  his  full  voice ; 

"Arseny  Ivanovich." 

"Yes,  my  benefactor,  yes?" 

**Arseny  Ivanovich,  I  want  to  announce — " 

Arseny  Ivanovich  turned  right  round  and  began  to 
nod  his  head  with  a  kind,  tender,  urging  expression  on 
his  face. 

*'I  want  to  announce  that  I — that  I — have  decided  to 
join  the  fighting  organization." 

Doctor  Berg  raised  his  narrow  eyebrows  and  looked 
at  him  in  surprise.  Vera  Andreyevna  frowned.  Zal- 
kind  blinked  his  inflamed  eyes.  There  was  a  painful 
pause.     Arseny  Ivanovich  broke  the  silence: 

"Well?  That's  good — very  good.  Terror  is  neces- 
sary, and  people  like  you  are  wanted  for  terror.  I  can- 
not disapprove  of  your  decision — that  is,  of  your  desire 
— but — but,  my  benefactor,  who  of  us  does  not  want  to 
go  in  for  terror,  does  not  long  for  it?"  Arseny  Ivan- 
ovich's  voice  suddenly  shook  with  emotion,  and  his  long 
white  beard  trembled.  But  we  don't  go  in  for  it,  we 
don't.  "Why,  my  benefactor?  Because  if  you  put  too 
much  salt  into  your  soup,  you  won't  eat  it.  Because  we 
have  taken  the  responsibility  upon  ourselves,  we  have 
taken  the  heavy  load.  Because  the  Party  must  be  man- 
aged." Arseny  Ivanovich  sighed.  "Ah,  my  dear  Aud- 
rey Nikolayevich,  your  ambition  is  excellent,  but — ^but 
listen  to  me,  to  an  old  man.  This  is  not  the  time.  One 
must  wait,  my  dear  man.    Yes — yes — one  must  wait." 

It  was  late  at  night.  The  candles  were  burning  their 
last  in  fetid  tongues  of  flame.  Shadows  were  gathering 
in    the    corners,    enveloping    the    comrades.    A   warm 


178  What  Never  Happened 

bluish  tobacco  smoke  filled  the  air.  Bolotov  felt  an- 
noyed. 

"Has  the  committee  the  power  to  prevent  me?  The 
power  to  say:  thou  shalt  not  kill?  The  power  to  say: 
thou  shalt  not  die?" 

He  rose  slowly,  looking  tall  and  slim,  pale,  with  burn- 
ing blue  eyes,  and  advanced  to  the  table  covered  with 
dying  candles. 

"Arseny  Ivanovich,  I  have  come  to  a  decision  on  this 
point. ' ' 

"No,  no,  no!  What  do  you  mean?  Allow  me!" 
Gennady  Gennadievich  broke  in,  in  excitement.  "What 
do  you  mean,  you've  come  to  a  decision?  My  dear  man, 
there  are  Party  interests  that  are  above  yours.  You 
have  no  right  to  come  to  your  own  decisions.  It  is  a 
question  that  has  to  be  discussed.  How  can  you  act 
that  way?" 

"You'll  excuse  me — " 

"I  shall  not  excuse  you,  my  inestimable  one,  I  shall 
not  excuse  you,  my  diamond.  There  can  be  no  talk 
about  this.  Just  think!  The  highest  interests  of  the 
Party  are  affected!  Caveant  consules.  Yes!  And  I 
tell  you  beforehand,  I  do  not  agree  with  you.  You  are 
wanted  in  the  committee.  What  is  it  going  to  come  to? 
Today  you  will  leave,  tomorrow  Arsenj^  Ivanovich — the 
next  daj' — I.  Everybody  would  like  to  go.  Who  will 
remain?  No.  How  can  you?  How  can  you  pos- 
sibly?" 

"I  would  suggest  that  the  question  be  put  to  a  vote," 
said  Doctor  Berg  drily,  rubbing  his  thin  hands.  "I 
presume  you  will  obey  the  decision  of  the  majority?"  he 
turned  to  Bolotov. 


.What  Never  Happened  179 

Bolotov  made  no  reply.  ' '  Will  they  really  put  it  to  a 
vote?  A  vote?  On  what?  On  whether  I  should  live 
or  die?"  The  thought  appeared  so  ridiculous  and  al- 
most unseemly  that  he  did  not  even  feel  angry.  But 
Doctor  Berg  was  already  counting  the  votes. 

Bolotov  did  not  believe  his  own  eyes.  '  *  Then  the  com- 
mittee has  really  got  the  power  to  allow  or  to  forbid? 
Then  it's  true  that  death  and  murder  can  be  decided 
upon  by  a  majority?" 

Brushing  aside  Doctor  Berg's  hand,  he  turned  on  Ar- 
seny  Ivanovich  with  an  angry  stare. 

"You'll  excuse  me.     I  shall  do  as  I  have  decided." 

"Nonsense,  my  benefactor,  nonsense,"  Arseny  Ivan- 
ovich laughed.     "Will  you  not  obey  the  committee?" 

"A  violation  of  discipline  entails — "  Doctor  Berg 
began  didactically,  but  Bolotov  did  not  wait  for  him  to 
finish.  Without  saying  another  word,  he  strode  from 
the  room.  In  the  empty,  half-lighted  hall  he  was  joined 
by  Gruzdiev,  who  was  very  much  confused. 

Bolotov  turned  on  his  heels  abruptly. 

"Have  you  cast  your  vote,  Gruzdiev?" 

"Of  course.    Why?" 

"Nothing." 

And  though  Gruzdiev  had  been  silent  throughout  the 
evening  and  was  not  to  be  blamed  for  the  voting,  still 
Bolotov  turned  on  him  with  sudden  rage,  quite  unusual 
in  him.  Giving  vent  to  all  the  sufferings  of  his  dark 
days,  he  began  to  reproach  him  with  hypocrisy. 

"But  do  you — do  you  understand  what  you  are  say- 
ing? Do  you  understand  what  you've  done?  Do  you 
understand  or  not?  Why  are  our  comrades  dying? 
And  you?     Why  are  you,  Gruzdiev,  still  alive?    Who 


180  What  Never  Happened 

needs  your  life?  And  I.  Why  am  I  alive?  Have  I 
no  shame?  No  conscience?  Are  you  not  ashamed  of 
yourself?" 

Gruzdiev  shrugged  his  shoulders.  His  good,  open  face 
flushed  with  a  sense  of  insult.     He  smiled  bashfully. 

"Oh,  well.    It's  all  so—"  he  said. 

"It's  all  so  what?" 

"But  terror  is  not  the  essential  thing.  Is  it  difficult 
to  die?"  He  flushed  a  still  deeper  colour.  "Do  you 
believe  me?  Yes?  Well,  then,  you  know  there  is  work 
that  perhaps  is  still  more  difficult.  Propaganda  among 
peasants,  among  workers,  among  soldiers,  among  the 
masses.  Isn't  that  necessary?  Is  he  the  only  revolu- 
tionist who  comes  out  with  a  book  in  his  hands?  Who 
is  fighting  at  the  barricades?  Don't  I  serve  the  revolu- 
tion?    Is  not  my  work  useful?     Tell  me,  isn't  it?" 

"Ah,  Gruzdiev,  that's  not  the  point." 

"What  is?  Listen,  Bolotov,  I'll  tell  you.  Arseny 
Ivanovich  is  an  old  man.  One  must  not  be  angry  with 
him.  As  for  Doctor  Berg,  oh,  well,  what  is  Doctor 
Berg?  You  know  me,  eh?  I  can't  understand  you. 
Terror  is  only  a  means,  one  of  many  good  means.  Glory 
and  respect  to  the  man  who  walks  that  road.  But  I 
don't.  And  shall  not.  You  hear?  I  shall  not  do  it 
consciously,  because  it  does  not  matter  whether  or  not 
one  dies.  What  is  important  is  how  to  be  of  the  greatest 
use.  We  are  so  few — so  few  people  who  know  what 
they  want  and  know  it  firmly,  people  for  whom  the  rev- 
olution is  not  merely  an  uprising,  but  a  deep  upheaval 
of  ideas.  And  now  you're  leaving  us.  Listen,  come 
along  with  me  to  the  peasants,  into  the  village.  There 
you  will  find  live  work.    There  you  won't  waste  your 


What  Never  Happened  181 

words."  Gruzdiev  was  silent  and  looked  into  Bolotov's 
eyes  with  little  hope.    Bolotov  smiled. 

"You  don't  understand  me.  Wliat  you're  doing  is 
useful  work.     I  have  done  it  all  my  life.     Only — " 

''Only  what?" 

Bolotov  did  not  answer.  He  raised  his  hand  hope- 
lessly and  went  slowly  to  his  room.  The  committee, 
perplexed  by  his  action,  were  still  talking  about  him. 


CHAPTER  III 

VOLODYA  had  no  success  in  Tver.  He  had  de- 
cided to  dynamite  the  railroad  tracks  in  order 
to  give  new  life  to  the  dying  uprising  and  to 
stop  the  Semyonov  Regiment.  But  he  could  get  no 
dynamite,  and  without  any  definite  reason  he  returned 
to  Moscow.  The  fighting  squads  had  been  defeated,  the 
last  barricade  shot  to  pieces.  On  the  Kudrinskaya 
Plaza,  near  bonfires,  one  could  find  the  pitiful  traces  of 
the  crushed  uprising — burned  posts,  still  smoky,  up- 
turned fences,  barrels,  boards,  window  frames.  Priesna 
Street  was  occupied  by  the  army,  in  Gruziny  Street  the 
artillery  was  still  shooting,  and  at  the  Strastny  Monastery 
concierges  were  exhibiting  the  traces  of  rifle  shots  to 
merchants.  Volodya  understood  that  the  battle  had  been 
lost,  and  he  left  the  same  evening  for  St.  Petersburg. 

The  Moscow  failure  made  him  feel  indignant.  Faint- 
heartedness seemed  to  him  to  be  the  cause  of  it.  He  was 
indignant  at  Zalkind  because  he  had  refused  money,  at 
Arseny  Ivanovich  because  he  had  not  supplied  ammuni- 
tion, at  Doctor  Berg  because  he  had  not  organized  Party 
troops.  He  accused  the  committee  of  disgraceful  aloof- 
ness, the  Party  of  negligence.  He  believed  sincerely 
that  the  workmen  could  have  won  St.  Petersburg,  but 
that  the  comrades  had  become  frightened.  If  Seriozha, 
he  thought,  had  been  furnished  with  five  kilograms  of 
dynamite,  he  would  have  taken  possession  of  Moscow, 
and  had  other  people,  more  farsighted  and  daring,  been 

182 


What  Never  Happened  183 

in  charge  of  affairs,  instead  of  Arseny  Ivanovieh,  or 
Doctor  Berg,  or  Vera  Andreyevna,  the  fate  of  Russia 
would  have  been  changed.  He  was  incapable  of  perceiv- 
ing that  the  success  of  the  uprising  did  not  depend  on 
their  conscious  will  and  that  every  member  of  the  Party 
was  right  in  his  own  fashion.  Pronka  was  right  in 
dying  at  the  barricades;  Vanya  was  right  in  throwing 
the  bomb ;  Berg  was  right  in  caring  for  the  committee ; 
Bolotov  was  right  in  defending  Moscow.  Every  one  did 
what  he  could  and  should  have  done  in  accordance  with 
his  ability.  And  if  their  weak  powers  were  not  suffi- 
cient, if  the  uprising  was  crushed,  it  was  not  the  fault 
of  individuals,  not  the  fault  of  Bolotov,  or  Berg,  or 
Arseny  Ivanovieh.  But  Volodya  did  not  see  this.  In 
his  indignation  over  the  painful  defeat,  in  his  convic- 
tion that  the  committee  was  guilty,  in  his  anger  over  the 
futile  sacrifice,  he  bitterly  repented  his  credulity.  He 
did  not  go  to  the  convention.  Party  conventions,  con- 
ferences and  councils  seemed  a  useless  pastime,  the  prat- 
tling of  the  idle  ''intelligentzia."  He  had  long  since 
solved  all  problems.  He  thought  there  was  nothing  to 
talk  about,  nothing  to  decide,  no  time  to  hesitate.  He 
felt  it  was  time  to  take  revenge,  not  to  babble,  also  that 
the  revolution  was  bound  by  no  laws,  that  terror  was  no 
crime,  and  that  one  man  had  an  undeniable  right  over 
the  life  of  another,  just  as  he,  Volodya,  had  the  power 
over  his  squad  of  men.  And  like  Bolotov  he  was  op- 
pressed heavily  by  a  feeling  of  lonesomeness. 

"Cowards!  Miserable  cowards!"  he  kept  repeating 
through  his  teeth,  as  he  walked  along  the  Izmailovsky 
Prospect.  A  fresh  wind  was  blowing  from  the  sea,  a 
light  mist  was  falling.  The  thin  snow  was  melting. 
The  copper  column  of  Victory  receded  in  the  misty  fog. 


184  What  Never  Happened 

It  was  not  yet  four  in  the  afternoon,  but  the  electric 
lights  were  already  turned  on.  Volodya,  with  his  black 
curly  head  stuck  into  his  coat  collar,  was  hurrying  along 
the  slippery  sidewalk.  In  the  Fifth  Section  of  the  city, 
in  a  "secret"  lodging  selected  by  him,  lived  Olga,  his 
comrade  and  friend;  and  as  he  neared  the  place,  his 
thoughts  quieted  down.  He  was  now  thinking  of  Olga, 
of  her  knowing  eyes,  of  how  in  ten  minutes  he  would 
hear  her  friendly  voice,  would  press  her  beloved  hands. 
He  had  come  to  St.  Petersburg  for  Seriozha,  for  Vanya 
and  Konstantin,  but  he  could  not  explain  why  he  had 
not  gone  directly  from  the  railroad  station  to  the  Party 
quarters.  And  had  anybody  suspected  him  of  being  in 
love,  he  would  have  laughed  in  disdain. 

He  located  the  familiar  gloomy  five-story  house, 
crossed  the  dirty  yard,  and  walked  up  the  stairs.  Olga, 
a  tall  woman  with  smoothly  combed  hair  and  clad  in  a 
simple  black  dress,  opened  the  door  herself.  Although 
they  had  not  seen  each  other  for  a  whole  month  and  she 
had  been  waiting  and  weeping  for  him  and  worrying  for 
his  life,  they  met  as  if  they  had  parted  only  the  day 
before. 

Volodya,  enormously  tall  and  broad-shouldered,  sat 
down  on  the  couch,  without  even  greeting  her  or  taking 
off  his  coat. 

"Olga." 

"What?" 

"Olga." 

"What,  dear?" 

"Olga,  what  is  to  be  done  now?" 

Olga  cast  her  eyes  down.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders 
impatiently. 

"What  do  you  think,  Olga?" 


What  Never  Happened  185 

"What  do  I  think?" 

*'0h,  my  God,  don't  drawl." 

Her  round,  almost  elderly  face  suddenly  became  cold 
and  unpleasant. 

"Volodya,  this  is  what  I  say.  You  ask  me  what  is  to 
be  done.  I  don't  know  what  is  to  be  done.  But  listen, 
there  are  people — they  are  the  great  majority.  They 
don't  do  anything,  they  don't  dare  to  do  anything,  they 
don't  understand  anything,  they  despair  at  misfortune 
— weak  children — " 

''Well?" 

"*'WelI,  and  then  there  are  others — " 

She  suddenly  leaned  towards  him  and  embraced  his 
neck  with  an  elastic,  almost  cat-like  motion. 

**  Listen,  Volodya,  tell  me.  If  a  man  has  resolved  on 
everything,  if  he  has  borne  everything,  has  understood 
everything,  has  gone  through  everything,  if  he  has  looked 
do'v\Ti  into  the  deepest  of  the  deep,  into  the  black  abyss, 
into  the  horrifying  darkness,  and  if  he  has  felt  no  terror, 
if  he  has  looked  into  it  all  and  felt  no  dizziness,  tell  me, 
do  you  think  he  is  like  all  the  rest  ?  Is  he  a  weak  child  ? 
Or  has  he,  perhaps,  a  power  over  people  ?  A  power  over 
life  and  death?" 

Volodya  looked  at  her  perplexed,  not  understanding 
what  she  meant.  She  pressed  him  softly  to  her  breast, 
and  her  knowing  grey  eyes  became  attractively  and  un- 
usually near.    He  sighed. 

*'One  must  not  fear,  beloved.  To  a  man  like  that  all 
is  permissible.  You  hear,  all.  For  him  there  is  no  sin, 
no  forbidden  thing,  no  crime.  Only  one  must  be  daring. 
People  tell  lies  and  then  are  afraid.  People  say  blood 
and  are  afraid  of  blood.  People  are  afraid  of  words. 
Let  there  be  an  abyss  below,  but  is  there  no  abyss  above  ? 


186  What  Never  Happened 

Happy  is  the  one  who  has  come  to  know  both.  I  think 
that  is  the  way  it  is.  Here  we  have  resolved  on  some- 
thing great,  on  something  terrifying,  and  how  terrify- 
ing !  We  have  resolved  on  terror,  on  murder,  on  death ! 
One  who  can  stand  it  all,  shall  stand  it.  And  he  shall 
stand  lies,  and  blood,  and  his  own  suffering.  And  one 
who  can't,  shall — he  shall  perish,  of  course.  And  so  he 
should!"  she  ended  harshly,  with  contempt  in  her 
voice. 

Volodya  scarcely  listened  to  her.  Because  of  her  near- 
ness, and  because  her  tresses  were  falling  in  disorder, 
and  the  lamp  was  burning  with  a  dim  light  from  under 
the  shade,  and  because  of  the  quiet  in  the  room,  he  did 
not  feel  big  and  strong,  the  famous  Volodya,  but  like  a 
small  boy  being  petted.  Guessing  this  feeling  of  his, 
Olga  whispered  in  his  ear : 

* '  Beloved,  how  tired  you  are ! ' ' 

And  as  soon  as  she  had  said  it,  Volodya  for  the  first 
time  in  many  months  understood  how  utterly  exhausted 
he  was,  exhausted  by  his  homeless  life,  by  the  bitter 
struggle.  He  closed  his  eyes,  lowered  his  head  with  its 
long  thick  hair  and,  forgetting  about  the  Party,  the 
fighting  squad,  the  revolution,  and  even  Olga,  he  gradu- 
ally relaxed  into  a  short  but  well-deserved  restfulness, 
where  there  was  no  life,  no  blood,  no  death,  no  barricades, 
no  terror,  no  gendarmes  and  no  committee,  but  only  a 
dark,  blissful,  boundless  feeling  of  repose.  Olga  looked 
smilingly  into  his  face.  Unkempt  and  unwashed  as  he 
was,  with  pockmarks  on  his  face  and  a  long,  curly  beard, 
he  seemed  attractive  and  handsome  to  her.  He  did  not 
rest  for  long.  As  if  in  slumber,  he  shook  his  hair  and 
repeated  his  question : 

*'Then  what  is  to  be  done  now?'.' 


"What  Never  Happened  187 

"What's  to  be  done  now?"  Olga  raised  her  brows  in 
discontent.  "I  am  not  the  one  to  decide  that,  Volodya, 
but  you." 

Volodya  remained  silent,  fingering  his  cigarette. 

"Listen,  Olga,"  he  began  at  last.  "This  is  all  non- 
sense. I'm  no  philosopher.  I  don't  know  any  abysses. 
But  I  do  know  that  I  can't  reconcile  myself  to  it.  No, 
I  can't.  I  hate  them.  You  understand,  I  hate  them. 
There  are  two  roads.  One  is  with  the  Party,  with  Doc- 
tor Berg,  the  road  of  conventions,  statutes,  programs, 
committees,  and  red  tape,  the  devil  take  it!  That's  the 
road  I  have  been  walking.  Where  has  it  brought  me  to  ? 
The  uprising  is  crushed,  terror  is  at  a  standstill.  Per- 
haps the  Party  is  growing,  but  the  revolution  is  dying, 
yes,  dying.  But  there  is  another  road,  Olga.  Listen  to 
me,  Olga.  War  should  be  war.  You  understand  ?  I  've 
made  up  my  mind.  I  may  be  alone  today.  Tomorrow 
we  shall  be  many.  I  don't  want  any  white  hands,  any 
good  advice.  I  don't  want  any  threats  on  paper.  I 
can't  and  I  won't  forgive — " 

He  pushed  her  hand  away  and  got  up.  He  was  no 
longer  tired.  He  felt  that  exciting,  nervous  resolve 
which  had  been  aroused  in  him  in  the  house  of  Sliozkin 
and  which  had  later  sent  him  to  Tver  in  search  of  dyna- 
mite. Now  it  seemed  to  him  that  there  was  no  death- 
sentence,  no  sacrifice,  no  suffering  that  could  hold  him 
back.  It  also  seemed  to  him  that  such  was  the  divine 
will  of  the  people,  that  it  was  only  he,  the  revolutionist 
Gliebov,  who  was  uttering  those  exalted  words,  and  his 
mouth  was  expressing  the  will  of  the  people,  the  poverty- 
stricken,  humble,  liberty-loving,  awe-inspiring  Russian 
people. 

"And  money?" 


188  .What  Never  Happened 

"What  money?  What  is  money?  The  committee 
■will  give  money.'* 

Olga  shook  her  head  thoiaghtfully. 

"The  committee  will  not  give  any  money." 

"It  won't?  All  right,  the  devil  take  them!"  Vo- 
lodya  brought  his  fist  down  on  the  table.  "I  will  find 
money!     I  will." 

"But  where,  Volodya?" 

"Where?  If  you  have  no  money — ^kill!  I'll  get  mil- 
lions! I  will  open  the  gratings  of  the  banks,  I  will 
break  iron  chests!  With  weapons  in  my  hands  I  will 
obtain  money.  You  hear?  Will  you  believe  me  ?  What 
does  the  Berg  committee  mean  to  me?  I  can  battle  all 
alone  in  a  field.  Oh,  they  shall  get  their  deserts.  The 
nobles'  nests  shall Tdc  set  aflame!  They'll  know  Stepan 
Timof eyevich !     Indeed  they  will ! ' ' 

Bearded,  curly-headed  and  black,  with  eyes  sparkling 
like  fire,  Volodya  stood  before  her,  stretched  to  his  full 
enormous  height.  She  looked  straight  into  his  eyes  with 
her  own  eyes  full  of  pride  and  exaltation.  She  had 
faith  that  he  would  do  as  he  said.  She  had  faith  that  his 
will  was  an  indomitable  will  like  hers.  There  was  no 
need  of  the  Bolotovs,  the  Bergs,  the  Zalkinds  and  the  old 
weaklings.  There  was  no  need  of  the  slow,  deliberative, 
calculating  Party.  All  was  permissible !  All !  For  the 
good  of  the  people  there  was  no  hesitation,  no  lawless- 
ness !  And  he,  her  black  knight  Volodya,  was  the  ruling 
leader.  He  would  show  the  people  the  road  to  liberty, 
he  would  save  perishing  Russia.  Full  of  happiness,  with 
burning  cheeks,  she  clung  to  him  silently. 


CHAPTER  IV 

VOLODYA  located  the  committee  and  informed 
them  of  his  decision.  The  persuasions,  the 
pleadings,  even  tears  of  Arseny  Ivanovich  were 
of  no  avail.  Volodya  left  for  the  South ;  from  the  South 
he  went  to  the  Volga,  and  two  months  later  he  was  at 
the  head  of  a  newly  organized  "iron"  fighting  squad. 
Seriozha  and  Vanya  did  not  join  him.  They  categori- 
cally refused  to  leave  the  Party.  Bolotov  also  refused, 
though  Volodya  pressed  him  urgently.  However,  he 
gained  a  new  recruit  in  a  notorious  St.  Petersburg  stu- 
dent, who  had  been  expelled  from  the  university  for  par- 
ticipating in  the  revolution. 

Ruvim  Epstein  considered  himself  a  very  talented 
scholar.  He  criticized  the  platform  adopted  at  the  gen- 
eral Party  convention  passionately  and,  as  he  thought, 
scientifically.  He  believed  that  its  unfortunate  mistakes 
mutilated  the  whole  significance  of  the  revolution.  A 
democratic  republic  in  his  opinion,  was  an  obsolete  half- 
measure  ;  the  Party  should  renounce  its  advocacy  of  any 
form  of  government,  and  should  demand  the  institution 
of  free  anarchist  communes ;  with  this  great  goal  in  view 
all  means  were  permissible,  and  he  advised  the  robbing 
of  merchants,  the  burning  of  the  landed  estates,  and  ex- 
propriation of  private  property  in  favour  of  the  people. 
The  most  dangerous  enemy  of  the  revolution,  he  as- 
serted, was  not  the  government,  but  the  "bourgeoisie." 
So,  the  "contemptible  bourgeois"  should  not  be  spared. 

Epstein's    dark-blue    eyeglasses   and    pale,    greenish 

189 


190  What  Never  Happened 

cheeks  could  be  seen  at  all  gatherings,  meetings  and  con- 
ferences. He  spoke  fluently,  debated  hotly,  and  invar- 
iably closed  his  speeches  with  a  thunderous  "call  to 
arms."  When  he  heard  that  the  famous  Volodya  had 
thrown  over  the  committee,  he  went  to  him  full  of  joy 
and  tried  to  persuade  him  to  enlarge  his  squad,  so  as  to 
create  an  aggressive,  "really  revolutionary"  Party. 
He  explained  the  details  of  his  scientifically  constructed 
program  and  the  workings  of  his  faultless  plan  of 
battle.  Volodya  yawned,  looked  at  his  weak  hands  and 
flat  chest,  listened  indifferently  to  his  harsh  voice — • 
Epstein  delighted  in  the  sound  of  his  own  voice — and 
waited  patiently  for  the  end  of  his  school-boy  speech. 

"A  woodcock  is  not  big,  but  he  makes  a  big  noise," 
Volodya  decided  to  himself.  But  because  Epstein  ex- 
pressed familiar  thoughts  and  could  "wag  his  tongue," 
and,  consequently,  defend  the  "platform"  of  the  fight- 
ing squad  when  necessary,  Volodya  accepted  him. 
Epstein  was  happy.  He  thought  Volodya  shared  his  ex- 
treme convictions,  and  a  new  shining  page  would  be 
written  into  the  history  of  the  old,  hackneyed,  heretical 
revolution  by  the  entrance  of  a  new  party  built  accord- 
ing to  his  theory,  a  party  that  undoubtedly  would  march 
to  victory. 

Volodya  had  faith  in  his  own  star.  He  felt  an  abun- 
dant source  of  unspent  forces  in  himself,  forces  of  dar- 
ing, hate,  inspiration  and  faith,  and  never  doubted  that 
the  lonely  road  he  had  chosen  was  prudent  and  inevi- 
table. But  after  he  had  laboured  two  months  to  create  a 
strong  organization  and  was  preparing  for  the  first  ac- 
tion— a  big  and  difficult  "expropriation" — he  began  to 
experience  occasional  fears  that  the  first  undertaking 
might  be  a  defeat.    While  a  member  of  the  Party  he 


What  Never  Happened  191 

had  had  no  such  anxieties.  Hundreds  of  comrades  were 
there  ready  to  take  up  the  work  where  he  had  left  off; 
no  matter  that  those  comrades  were  Doctor  Bergs,  so 
long  as  the  seed,  once  sown,  would  not  die,  and  the  field 
would  bring  a  harvest.  But  now  as  he  looked  at  his  re- 
bellious "fighters" — at  Epstein,  Konstantin,  the  gym- 
nasiast  Mitya,  the  blacksmith  Prokhor,  the  clerk  Yelizar, 
all  the  people  who  had  been  attracted  by  his  daring,  he 
perceived  to  his  sorrow  that  should  he  hang  tomorrow, 
there  would  be  no  one  to  take  his  place  at  the  steering- 
wheel.  He  tried  to  stifle  these  thoughts,  in  an  effort  to 
convince  himself  that  there  could  be  no  defeat,  and  he 
listened  eagerly  to  Olga's  inspiring  words,  but  he  could 
not  kill  the  anxiety  in  his  heart. 

In  Odessa  there  was  much  talk  about  a  revolutionist, 
"The  Fly,"  a  sailor  who  had  deserted  and  who  had  ex- 
perienced solitary  confinement.  After  some  hesitation 
Volodya  decided  to  meet  him.  He  had  furtive  hopes 
that  he  would  finally  find  a  worthy  friend.  The  meeting 
was  to  take  place  in  Moscow.  He  gathered  together  his 
men,  who  had  been  scattered  all  over  Russia,  into  Tver, 
told  them  to  await  his  return  and,  without  asking  Olga  's 
advice,  left  for  Moscow,  which  was  already  quiet. 

In  Sokolniki  the  scent  of  spring  was  in  the  air.  The 
white  snow  was  swelling  and  melting,  laying  the  ground 
bare.  The  soft,  damp,  black  spots  seemed  to  be  drained 
by  the  thirst  of  coming  spring.  In  the  air,  which  was 
still  cold,  but  fragrant,  the  sparrows  were  twittering  fes- 
tively. The  Fly,  a  young  chap  of  about  thirty,  slen- 
der and  well-built,  as  if  cast  in  steel,  with  a  pewter 
ring  in  his  ear,  was  walking  slowly  and  swinging  slightly 
on  his  strong  legs.  Volodya,  who  looked  even  heavier 
and  clumsier  beside   of  him,   was  splashing   along  in 


192  What  Never  Happened 

the  melting  snow,  watching  his  companion  with  sidewise 
glances.  The  Fly  was  relating  the  story  of  his  life. 
He  spoke  quickly  and  easily,  obviously  showing  off  an 
artificial  indifference.  He  looked  upon  Volodya  as  upon 
a  daring  chieftain,  a  hunter  after  wild  game. 

*'And  I  began  to  live  quietly.  I  had  a  little  house,  a 
wife.  But  soon  I  began  to  notice — my  wife,  my  better 
half,  so  to  say — excuse  me — sh-sh-sh — with  mister  village 
inspector.  And  it  was  hard  to  make  out  whether  it  was 
anything  political,  or  purely  amorous.  "Well,  I  did  not 
wait  too  long.  What  for?  It  was  in  the  autumn.  A 
dark  night.  Pitch  dark.  I  took  my  double-barrelled 
gun  down  from  the  nail  and  went  out  into  the  street. 
It  was  dark  in  the  street,  lights  in  the  windows.  My 
wife  was  sitting  inside,  sewing  on  a  Singer  sewing-ma- 
chine. There  was  a  lamp  on  the  table  near  her,  and  I 
could  see  her  very  plainly.  Well,  with  God's  blessing,  I 
raised  the  gun  to  my  shoulder,  aimed,  stood  still  a  mo- 
ment. One,  two.  The  bullet  hit  her  right  on  this  spot. " 
He  pointed  to  just  above  his  temple. 

''Did  you  kill  her?" 

"Exactly.     I  killed  her." 

Volodya  frowned. 

"And  why  were  you  assigned  to  the  disciplinary 
battalion?"  he  asked  a  moment  later. 

"To  the  disciplinary?" 

"Yes." 

"I  struck  the  quartermaster  in  a  fit  of  rage,"  the  Fly* 
answered  with  contempt,  spat  out,  and  lighted  a  cigar- 
ette.    A  thin  ring  of  smoke  curled  up  into  the  blue  air. 

"Well?" 

"What  is  it?" 

"Go  on." 


What  Never  Happened  193 

"What's  to  go  on  about,  Vladimir  Ivanovich?  My 
tale  is  short,  but  the  rope  is  long.  Well,  if  you  want  to 
know,  I  was  flogged,  in  the  disciplinary — ^by  our  merci- 
ful officials.     That's  what  I  was." 

''Flogged?" 

"Certainly.     Twice." 

"For  what?" 

"For  tobacco — smoking  cigarettes  contrary  to  rules.'* 

"And  you?" 

"I?  What  about  me?"  The  Fly  smiled,  exposing 
his  milk-white  teeth.  His  sharp  face,  with  a  nose  like 
a  vulture's,  became  still  sharper.  In  his  narrow  hazel 
eyes  rapid  fires  flashed  up  and  died  down.  "I  suppose, 
I  paid  them  back  for  it.  I  guess  they  haven 't  forgotten 
me  yet." 

"Did  you  kill? 

"Exactly.  Killed.  His  Excellency,  the  commander 
of  the  battalion."  He  threw  away  the  butt.  "Well, 
then  I  began  to  lead  an  underground  life.  With  the 
committee,  excuse  me,  I  was  not  on  good  terms.  'You're 
a  murderer, '  they  said.  That  is,  the  noble  gentlemen  of 
the  district  committee,  the  students,  said  so.  'Exactly, 
I  replied,  a  murderer.'  'We  don't  want  men  like  you.' 
'  Just  as  you  please, '  I  said.  '  I  'm  not  very  keen  on  men 
like  you. '  And  I  left  them. ' '  He  smiled  again.  * '  Per- 
mit me  another  smoke." 

While  he  was  lighting  the  cigarette,  Volodya  looked 
at  him  curiously,  at  his  sheepskin  cap  pulled  to  one  side, 
his  short  fur  jacket,  and  the  swift,  rounded  motions  of 
his  small  hands. 

"Do  you  drink?"  Volodya  asked  suddenly. 

"Yes,  sir.  I  drink,"  the  Fly  answered  unhesitat- 
ingly, raising  his  eyes. 


194  What  Never  Happened 

Volodya  remained  silent  a  while. 

''Well?" 

"Well,  one  can't  tell  everything.  I  went  away. 
Lived  in  Odessa.  Once  I  found  out  that  the  owner  of  a 
tobacco  store,  Mikhail  Efimovich  Zhizhin  was  a  spy. 
'Oh,  you,  scoundrel!'  I  thought.  'You  just  wait.'  I 
picked  after  dinner,  when  he  would  take  a  nap.  And 
then  I  went  there.  To  the  store,  I  mean.  His  wife 
came  out.  'Let  me  have  Golubka  cigarettes  for  five,' 
I  said.  'We  have  no  Golubka,'  she  said.  'How's  that? 
Impossible.  I  just  bought  some  here.  Look  and  see  if 
you  can't  find  them.'  She  began  to  hunt.  'No,'  she 
said,  'I  can't  find  an3\'  'Wake  your  husband  up,  then.' 
She  went  behind  the  partition,  and  I  locked  the  door. 
The  store-keeper  came  out.  'You  want  Golubka?'  he 
said.  'Yes,  Golubka,  please.'  He  turned  his  back  and 
began  to  search  over  the  shelves.  I  took  my  revolver 
out.  I  had  a  government  model.  One — ^two.  Very 
simple — " 

^'You  killed  him?" 

"Exactly." 

"And  then—" 

' '  And  then  ?     Then  I  went  after  the  spies. ' ' 

'The  spies?" 

'Exactly.     I  mean  the  secret  service  agents." 

'And  did  you  get  many  of  them?" 

■'About  eight,  maybe  more." 

'Nothing  but  spies?" 

The  Fly  winced  and  shook  his  head. 

"There  were  all  sorts — " 

"Go  on,  tell  me." 

"No,  what  for?  I'm  not  at  a  confession,  Vladimir 
Ivanovich.    What's  the  use  of  recalling  the  past?    And 


What  Never  Happened  195 

what's  the  difference?  They're  all  the  same.  A  .gen- 
darme, a  merchant,  a  landowner.  What's  the  differ- 
ence ?  That 's  my  opinion.  And  yours  ? "  He  looked  at 
Volodya  with  a  bold,  ironical  expression  in  his  eyes. 

Volodya  made  no  answer.  The  Fly  stuck  his  hand 
carelessly  into  his  pocket  and,  after  waiting  a  while  for 
an  answer,  continued: 

"Then  there  were  the  wine  shops.  They  give  a  lot 
of  trouble." 

"Did  you  rob  them  alone?" 

"No.  Not  alone.  I  had  comrades.  But  it's  not 
worth  talking  about.  What  sort  of  business  is  it?  It's 
mere  play.     Dirty  work.     It  soils  one's  hands." 

"What  did  you  do  with  the  money?" 

"Money?  There  wasn't  much  of  it.  And  must  I 
live  or  no?  What  do  you  think?"  he  added,  laughing 
derisively.     * '  I  used  to  give  it  to  the  Party. ' ' 

Volodya  hadn't  the  least  doubt  the  Fly  was  lying 
and  had  never  given  a  kopek  to  the  Party.  But  he  kept 
silent.     The  Fly  looked  at  him  sidewise. 

"Let's  sit  down  a  while,  Vladimir  Ivanovich." 

They  seated  themselves  on  a  damp  cold  stump.  The 
Fly  was  lazily  rolling  a  cigarette. 

"A  murderer,  a  real  murderer,"  Volodya  thought. 
"But  oh,  well,  I  mustn't  be  too  long  choosing.  I  cer- 
tainly couldn  't  cook  a  meal  with  Berg.  Supposing  he  is 
a  murderer,  at  least  he  won't  betray."  Water  was 
noisily  dropping  from  the  naked  branches.  The  Fly 
threw  his  head  up  and  sat  for  a  long  while  lost  in  thought, 
looking  up  with  half -closed  eyes  at  the  transparent 
clouds.     Suddenly  he  heaved  a  deep  sigh. 

"It's  fine,  Vladimir  Ivanovich." 

"What's  fine?" 


196  What  Never  Happened 

"The  Spring." 

When  an  hour  later  they  were  bidding  each  other 
good-bye  at  the  Triumphal  Gates,  the  Fly  held  on  to 
Volodj^a's  hand,  pressed  it  hard,  and  said: 

"Vladimir  Ivanovich?" 

"What?" 

"Let  me  go  with  you." 

"With  me?"    Volodya  hesitated,  not  knowing  why. 

"Yes.  I  want  to  join  you.  I'm  bored  to  death 
tramping  around  the  world.     Please  do  take  me." 

"You  may  be  the  leader  of  the  gang,  but  you're  just 
as  much  of  a  murderer  as  I  am,"  said  his  mocking  eyes. 

Volodya  understood  him.  A  flush  of  anger  coloured 
his  cheeks.  He  wanted  to  withdraw  his  hand,  but  in- 
stantly changed  his  mind. 

"Well,  after  all,  what  is  there  to  spit  upon?  War  is 
over.  'Love  us  even  if  we  are  black.'  He  is  right," 
Volodya  thought,  and  gained  control  over  himself.  He 
ordered  the  Fly  to  go  to  Tver. 


CHAPTER  V 

TOWARD  the  end  of  the  following  February  the 
fighting  squad  grew  and  gained  in  strength. 
Volodya  decided  to  make  a  terrorist  attempt. 
There  was  a  choice  of  two  undertakings.  One  of  his 
men,  Mitya,  a  student  who  had  been  expelled  from  the 
gymnasium,  the  son  of  a  banker,  informed  him  that  on 
Saturday,  the  second  of  April,  five  hundred  thousand 
rubles  of  government  money  would  be  delivered  from 
the  vaults  of  the  bank  to  the  Warsaw  railroad  station. 
Mitya  furnished  complete  details  of  the  size  of  the  Cos- 
sack guard  and  the  route  the  government  coach  would 
take.  Volodya  was  dazed  by  the  boldness  of  the 
plan.  He  did  not  doubt  that  one  well-thrown  bomb 
would  be  sufficient,  but  the  bomb  had  to  be  thrown  in 
broad  daylight  in  a  St.  Petersburg  street.  That  meant 
that  it  would  be  difficult,  almost  impossible,  to  avoid 
victims. 

The  other  undertaking  would  be  much  simpler,  but 
the  money  to  be  gained  was  scarcely  worth  the  effort, 
only  twenty  thousand  rubles  belonging  to  the  merchants 
Voronin,  whose  office  was  in  Moscow  near  the  Khopil- 
ovsky  Pond.  Volodya  was  told  of  this  "beggarly" 
chance  by  Yelizar,  a  clerk  in  the  Voronin  factory.  The 
Khopilovsky  ''kopeks"  tempted  Volodya.  On  the  de- 
serted outskirts  of  Moscow  the  squad  could  retire  without 
losing  a  single  man.  The  one  drawback  was  that  the 
first  enterprise,  as  Volodya  saw  it,  was  nothing  more 
than  a  plain,  unadorned  robbery.     Since  he  had  placed 

197 


198  What  Never  Happened 

himself  at  the  head  of  a  terrorist  band  and  had  become 
master  with  dictatorial  powers,  a  change  had  taken  place 
in  him.  His  belief  had  not  changed,  that  in  the  name 
of  the  people  everything  was  permissible,  and  he  agreed 
as  he  always  had,  with  Epstein,  that  the  merchants 
should  be  robbed  and  the  landed  estates  destroyed.  But 
a  deep-seated,  latent  instinct,  an  indefinable  feeling  of 
responsibility,  restrained  him  from  rash  measures.  He 
became  cautious,  M^eighed  every  word,  looked  over  every 
plan  time  and  again,  and  sometimes  glancing  at  the 
Fly's  hawk-like  face,  he  would  be  seized  by  a  strange 
fear. 

He  changed  also  in  his  relations  to  the  Party  com- 
mittee. Arseny  Ivanovich's  senility,  Doctor  Berg's 
frugality.  Vera  Audrey evna's  lack  of  ability,  he  fully 
appreciated  were  merely  petty,  transient  trifles,  and  the 
committee  members  really  deserved  credit  for  their  im- 
memorial services,  their  shouldering  of  the  responsi- 
bility for  the  Party.  In  the  past,  when  fighting  at  the 
barricades,  when  arresting  Colonel  Sliozkin,  and  when 
planning  to  blow  up  the  Semyonov  Regiment,  Volodya 
had  naively  thought  that  as  a  soldier  he  was  not  re- 
sponsible for  the  shedding  of  blood.  The  whole  Party 
was  accountable,  the  whole  revolution,  every  one  who 
shared  his  conviction.  To  his  surprise  he  saw  that  his 
break  with  the  committee  had  brought  him  nearer  to  it, 
nearer  to  its  organization  and  interest,  and  had  filled 
him  with  a  sense  of  duty  to  the  scjuad  of  which  he  was 
leader.  And  he  who  never  hesitated  was  now  uncertain, 
unable  to  decide  how  to  act.  From  this  difficulty  he 
was  rescued  by  Olga.  She  said  that  to  sacrifice  human 
lives  in  St.  Petersburg  for  the  sake  of  a  brilliant,  profit- 
able act,  was  no  mistake  but  an  enviable  deed  and  an 


What  Never  Happened  199 

honourable  one ;  and  should  he  rob  the  Voronin  office,  he 
would  soon  after,  willy-nilly,  decide  upon  a  larger  "ex- 
propriation." Her  arguments  persuaded  Volodya.  He 
called  his  men  to  St.  Petersburg,  detailed  Prokhor  and 
Yelizar  to  buy  horses  and  wagons  and  began  to  make 
ready  for  the  attempt. 

Two  days  before  the  second  of  April  he  made  an  ap- 
pointment to  meet  Epstein  at  Olga's  room,  and  also  a 
comrade  and  assistant  of  his  whom  he  jokingly  called 
"Chief  of  Staff,"  a  student  of  engineering,  Herman 
Freze,  the  son  of  a  Baltic  landowner,  who  had  been  about 
to  graduate  from  the  Institute  when  to  the  horror  of 
his  parents  he  suddenly  disappeared  from  St.  Peters- 
burg. He  came  to  Volodj^a  and  asked  to  be  accepted  for 
the  fighting  squad.  He  did  not  go  to  the  committee, 
or  to  Bolotov,  or  Arseny  Ivanovich,  but  to  Vladimir 
Gliebov,  because  he  had  decided  in  cold  blood  as  he 
thought,  that  it  was  worth  while  to  risk  his  life  only  for 
something  big,  something  really  useful  to  the  revolution. 
Like  Epstein,  he  had  a  blind  faith  in  terror,  and  be- 
lieved that  the  bourgeoisie  could  be  frightened  by  bombs. 
He  knew  Bakunin  by  heart,  but  did  not  like  to  voice  his 
opinions.  He  himself  could  hardly  tell  by  which  high- 
ways and  byways  he  had  come  to  irreconcilable  anar- 
chism, why  he,  a  man  of  independent  means,  had  con- 
ceived such  a  hatred  for  the  bourgeoisie.  He  really 
hated  it,  was  really  ready  to  die  for  his  unwritten  symbol 
of  faith.  He  was  a  silent  German,  correctly  dressed  to 
the  minutest  detail.  He  had  a  long  pale  face  and 
sharply  chiselled  chin.  Judging  by  his  student  uniform, 
his  gold  rings,  and  his  correctly  parted  hair,  nobody 
would  have  dreamed  that  he  believed  firmly  in  expro- 
priation and  terrorism. 


200  What  Never  Happened 

Always  prompt,  he  arrived  at  the  same  time  as  Ep- 
stein, before  Volodya.  Taking  off  his  hat  and  gloves, 
without  seeming  to  pay  any  attention  to  Olga,  he  un- 
rolled a  complete  map  of  St.  Petersburg.  Olga,  her  face 
propped  on  her  fists,  and  leaning  against  the  table, 
looked  at  Freze  in  silence  a  few  minutes.  From  the  very 
first  days,  there  had  been  established  a  peculiar,  half 
comradely,  half  tender  relationship  between  her  and  the 
men.  Epstein,  Mitya,  Konstantin,  Prokhor,  Yelizar, 
even  the  Fly  felt  pleased  that  among  them,  in  the  squad, 
was  a  young  woman  with  a  strong  body  and  womanly 
face,  who  was  their  comrade  and  friend.  In  her  pres- 
ence, even  when  she  was  silent,  they  felt  cheerier  and 
more  at  ease,  and  were  no  longer  haunted  by  the  fear 
of  being  hanged. 

Freze,  conscious  of  her  keen,  fixed  glance,  which  he 
thought  was  full  of  meaning,  today  also  felt  this  joy 
that  she  stirred  in  them. 

"Frezushka,  aren't  you  afraid?"  asked  Olga  smil- 
ingly, without  taking  her  eyes  from  his  thin  face. 

Freze  raised  his  eyes  and  wrinkled  his  white  forehead, 
from  which  the  hair  was  beginning  to  recede.  He 
wanted  to  answer  truthfully  and  precisely,  as  truth- 
fully and  precisely  as  he  was  accustomed  to  answer  not 
only  Olga,  but  every  one,  whatever  the  question. 

''Afraid  of  what,  Olga  Vasilyevna?"  he  said,  with 
but  a  slight  accent,  after  a  little  pause,  as  she  slowly 
poured  a  glass  of  tea  for  him. 

' '  If  you  ask  me  whether  I  am  afraid  for  my  life,  I  will 
tell  you  no.  I  am  not,  not  in  the  least.  But  if  you 
mean  that  the  thing  for  which  I  fear  is  the  success  of 
our  enterprise,  then  I  must  answer  yes,  I  am  afraid. ' ' 

Olga  sighed. 


What  Never  Happened  201 

*'0h,  you  Frezushka,  Freziishka,  always  with  your  'if 
and  'about  that.'  Everything  so  carefully  thought  out 
and  sensible,  so  German !  But  I  am  a  Russian,  I  am  not 
afraid  of  anything."  She  laughed  but  only  with  her 
eyes.  ''You  know,"  she  lowered  her  voice,  "I  was  try- 
ing to  tell  fortunes  today.  I  spread  the  cards  and  it 
came  out  that  everybody  would  be  wonderful.  You 
don't  believe  it,  do  you?" 

"I  don't  believe  in  fortune-telling,"  answered  Freze, 
seriously,  without  smiling.  Though  Freze  and  Epstein 
and  even  Olga  herself  knew  that  what  she  said  was  ridicu- 
lous, still  they  liked  it,  so  anxious  were  they  to  believe  in 
their  success. 

"You  don't  believe  in  it,  but  I  do,"  Olga  sang  out. 
"You  know,  Frezushka,  what  I  wanted  to  ask  you." 
Her  face  grew  cold  and  ugly,  as  when  she  spoke  to 
Volodya.  "Is  it  permissible,  in  your  opinion,  to  join 
the  secret  service,  or  is  it  not?" 

Freze  wrinkled  his  forehead  again  and  looked  at  her 
in  astonishment,  with  his  short-sighted,  protruding  eyes. 
Convinced  that  this  time  Olga  was  not  joking,  he  asked 
slowly,  as  if  to  make  sure : 

"Join  the  secret  service?" 

"Yes.    "Wliy  are  you  so  scared ? " 

"I  don't  quite  understand.  What  do  you  mean,  join 
the  secret  service?" 

"Oh,  my  God,  just  that.  It's  very  simple.  Epstein 
says  it  is  permissible  for  the  furthering  of  terror." 

Epstein,  gloomy  and  vexed  with  Olga,  because  she  was 
not  talking  to  him,  began  to  speak  loudly  and  angrily: 

"A  man  was  asked,  'What  do  you  do  with  money?' 
He  answered,  'I  divide  it  in  three  parts.  One  third  I 
lock  up  in  my  trunk;  one  third  I  bury  in  the  ground, 


202  What  Never  Happened 

and  one  third  I  permit  to  circulate. '  Well,  we  too,  have 
only  a  third  in  circulation.  Why  may  they  deceive  us 
and  not  we  them  ?  Why  should  we  allow  others  to  shear 
us  like  sheep?  I  ask  you,  for  the  sake  of  terror  every- 
thing is  permissible,  isn 't  it  ?  Do  you  agree?  You  may 
also  agree  that  everything  beneficial  to  the  revolution  is 
good,  and  harmful  to  it  is  bad?  Isn't  that  so?  Well, 
I  say  the  only  question  is,  whether  there  is  any  advantage 
to  be  gained  or  not.  Is  there  any  advantage  if  you  bury 
your  money  in  the  ground?  Is  there  a  doubt  about  it? 
Is  it  not  clear  that  if  you  or  I  were  active  in  the  secret 
service  we  should  know  everything  that  is  going  on 
there?  Well,  then,  is  it  clear?  Is  it?"  He  finished 
like  a  teacher  speaking  to  stupid,  indifferent  pupils,  to 
whom  the  simplest  things  have  to  be  repeated. 

Freze,  tall  and  severe  in  his  student  uniform,  sat  up- 
right, motionless,  glancing  from  Epstein  to  Olga,  with 
a  look  of  perplexity,  as  though  not  trusting  his  ears. 
Olga's  rounded  face  was  calm  and  wore  a  thoughtful 
smile. 

"For  the   sake   of  the  revolution?"    Freze   finally 
came  to  himself.     "It  is  funny;  for  the  sake  of  the  revo- 
lution, of  course;  could  there  be  any  other  reason?" 
Epstein  became  excited. 

"Is  it  necessary  to  make  terror  or  not?  It's  only 
silly  people  say,  this  is  not  allowed,  that  must  not  be 
done,  this  is  not  good,  that  is  bad,  this  is  immoral.  What 
does  it  all  mean?  Just  talk !  I  am  a  free  human  being, 
I  don't  recognize  any  authority,  and  I  repeat,  why 
should  we  allow  ourselves  to  be  sheared  like  sheep?" 

"I  never  thought  of  that  before,"  said  Freze,  hesitat- 
ing and  drawling.  "But  it  seems  to  me  you  are  wrong. 
If  a  man  enters  the  secret  service — " 


What  Never  Happened  203 

"Again  if,"  Olga  interrupted  jokingly.  "In  my 
opinion,  it  is  permissible.  But  not  for  everybody.  No, 
it  isn  't  everybody  that  can  do  it.  You  can 't.  But  there 
are  some  who  can,"  she  ended  smiling  shrewdly  and 
avoiding  Freze's  eyes. 

"What  can  one  do?" 

On  the  threshold  stood  Volodya,  big  and  black  in  his 
fur  coat.  Freze  breathed  more  freely,  as  if  Volodya  had 
just  saved  him  from  danger. 

"I  mean,"  said  Epstein,  becoming  confused,  "that  for 
the  benefit  of  terror,  it  is  right  to  join  the  secret  service. ' ' 

Volodya  contracted  his  brows  gloomily. 

"What?" 

"I  agree  with  Kletochnikov — " 

"Beginning  his  nonsense  already!"  Volodya  jerked 
his  head  angrily.     Turning  to  Freze  he  asked: 

' '  Have  you  seen  Yelizar  ? ' ' 

"I  have." 

"And  the  bombs?" 

"The  bombs  are  ready." 

"And  the  Mausers?" 

"They  all  have  Mausers." 

Volodya  nodded  his  head.  He  was  sure  of  success 
now.  What  gave  him  this  confidence  he  could  not  tell, 
but  somehow  during  the  last  troublesome  days  a  feeling 
of  joy — a  feeling  that  defeat  was  impossible  had  arisen 
in  him.  Never  before,  whether  on  the  barricades  at 
Moscow,  or  organizing  his  squad,  or  breaking  with  the 
Party  committee,  had  he  been  so  conscious  of  overflow- 
ing vigour.  It  was  as  if  the  muscles  of  his  massive  body 
had  all  hardened  and  strengthened  and  become  more 
flexible.  He  knew  the  face  of  things  had  not  changed — 
the  same  Konstantin,  the  Fly,  Mitya,  Prokhor,  Epstein 


204  What  Never  Happened 

would  go  out  armed  the  next  day.  It  would  be  just  as 
difficult  as  it  had  always  been  to  lift  money  in  the  St. 
Petersburg  streets,  and  it  was  just  as  easy  as  it  had  al- 
ways been  for  his  squad  and  himself  to  be  ruined  with- 
out resulting  gain.  Yet  he  felt  no  fear.  He  smiled  at 
Freze. 

"Freze  has  provided  for  every  contingency,  and  has 
verified  everything.  He  has  not  forgotten  a  single  de- 
tail. He  is  not  a  mere  man,  he  is  pure  white  and  gold, '  * 
Volodya  thought. 

Freze,  his  close-cropped  head  bent  over  a  map,  was 
making  careful  calculations  with  a  compass. 

"Great  Podyacheskaya,  a  hundred  feet  wide;  Tomal- 
ovsky,  two  hundred  and  twenty-five  feet.  The  shortest 
distance  from  Kriukov  Canal  to  Podyacheskaya  Street, 
through  Sadovaya  Street.  That  means  that  Prokhor 
ought  to  stand  at  Sadovaya  Street  with  the  cab  and 
Yelizar  on  Nikolsky  Street.  Do  you  hear  me,  Vladimir 
Ivanovich?  The  first  bomb  thrower,  Konstantin,  is  to 
meet  the  coach  behind  the  Ekaterinovsky  Prospect. 
The  second  bomb  thrower,  Mitya,  is  to  stand  thirty  feet 
away  from  him.    Isn't  that  so,  Vladimir  Ivanovich?" 

They  all  listened  attentively.  It  was  so  quiet,  so 
peaceful  in  the  room.  The  clock  struck  as  usual.  And 
Freze  spoke  with  such  certainty  that  the  matter  might 
have  been  some  trifling,  everyday  event.  To  judge  by 
Volodya 's  broad  back,  or  Epstein's  dark  glasses,  or 
Olga's  feminine  face,  or  the  polish  of  the  swift  compass, 
nobody  would  have  had  the  faintest  suspicion  that  Volo- 
dya, Freze,  Epstein,  Olga  might  kill  the  next  day,  or 
that  all  of  them  might  perish.  Not  one  of  them,  to  be 
sure,  was  thinking  of  death.     Everything  had  been  de- 


What  Never  Happened  205 

cided  and  settled,  they  felt.  Killing  was  permissible, 
and  the  only  question  was,  who  would  be  victorious. 
For  the  sake  of  victory,  each  of  them  was  ready  to  give 
his  life  without  hesitation. 


CHAPTER  VI 

ON  the  second  of  April,  Volodya  went  out  on  the 
street  at  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Prok- 
hor  was  to  await  him  at  Fontanka  Street.  The 
day  was  coming  to  life.  A  steamer  tooted  mournfully 
on  the  Neva,  the  first  tram-cars  clanged  by,  the  side- 
walks were  deserted,  and  the  stores  closed. 

"Walking  along  the  Nevsky  Prospect,  still  lifeless, 
Volodya  felt  as  though  there  would  not  be  any  assault, 
the  money  would  not  be  transported,  Konstantin  would 
miss  the  coach,  Mitya's  bomb  would  not  explode,  and 
the  whole  carefully  worked-out  plan  was  merely  a  boy- 
ish prank.  This  uneasy  feeling,  hitherto  unknown  to 
him,  was  so  strong  that  he  could  scarcely  realize  that 
that  very  day,  near  that  very  spot,  the  solemn,  dreadful 
thing  he  so  audaciously  desired  was  to  be  enacted. 

He  walked  slowly,  idly,  as  if  out  for  a  stroll,  and  al- 
most in  a  trance.  He  reached  Fontanka  Street,  and  did 
not  notice  when  he  turned  toward  the  river.  From  the 
crystalline  sheen  of  the  water,  it  was  borne  upon  him 
that  it  was  a  clear  sunny  spring  day.  It  grew  warm. 
He  unbuttoned  his  heavy  coat  and  began  to  look  around 
indifferently  in  search  of  the  cab.  When  he  finally 
discerned  it,  he  could  hardly  believe  that  that  stout 
coachman,  all  tidied  up,  was  the  same  Prokhor  he  had 
known  in  the  Ural  and  had  brought  along  to  St.  Peters- 
burg. 

"Why  is  he  here?    Nothing  will  come  of  this,"  he 

thought  superstitiously. 

206 


What  Never  Happened  207 

Prokhor  stood  in  his  blue  cloak  with  his  back  turned 
to  Volodya  dusting  the  sledge  sheet.  His  dappled  grey- 
thoroughbred  was  snorting  and  pricking  his  ears  as  if  in 
alarm.  Volodya  knew  the  horse.  He  and  Prokhor  had 
selected  it  at  the  horse-market  Konnaya.  It  was  fit 
to  carry  off  the  stakes  as  a  racer. 

''Driver!" 

"Here,  gentleman,  a  playful  one."  Volodya  drew 
near  to  Prokhor  and  looked  straight  into  his  face.  He 
noticed  the  bright  concerned  eyes  of  a  peasant  and  a  hesi- 
tant smile,  and  knew  Prokhor  was  afraid.  He  himself 
now  was  set  at  rest,  as  he  was  in  Olga's  house.  It  was 
useless  to  doubt,  Freze  had  not  worked  in  vain,  Prokhor 
was  not  a  whirlwind  driver  for  nothing,  the  bombs  were 
prepared,  and  the  Mausers  distributed,  and  now  it  was 
too  late  for  hesitation.  He  sighed  deeply  from  the  ful- 
ness of  his  heart. 

"Olga  will  soon  be  here.    Don't  miss  her." 

Ptokhor  did  not  answer.  Volodya  took  out  his  watch. 
Long  after  he  remembered  that  the  sun  had  sparkled 
like  gold  on  the  glass.  It  was  a  quarter  past  seven. 
Calculating  his  time  he  turned  to  the  Kriukov  Canal. 
Now,  after  the  meeting  with  Proklior,  he  rejoiced  to  find 
a  headstrong  determination  taking  possession  of  him. 
He  knew  the  feeling.  In  such  moments  he  feared  no- 
body, and  success  always  followed.  Quickening  his  pace, 
afraid  of  arriving  too  late,  he  went  to  Podyacheskaya 
Street.  At  the  open  town-tavern,  on  the  sidewalk  under 
the  lantern,  he  noticed  one  of  the  bomb  throwers,  Kon- 
stantin.  The  freckled,  red-haired  lad  stood  motionless  in 
his  officer's  black  mantle,  as  if  on  duty.  Volodya  went 
forward,  but  only  five  steps,  when  behind  him  horseshoes 
clanged  repeatedly  and  loudly,  and  before  the  set  time 


208  What  Never  Happened 

he  caught  sight  of  the  bank  coach.  Volodya  remem- 
bered it  well :  the  dark  sorrel  horses,  the  driver  with  his 
large,  bushy  beard,  and,  beside  him,  the  saintly  faced 
bank  messenger. 

On  each  side  close  to  the  wheels,  raised  a  little  in  their 
saddles,  jogged  the  Cossacks.  There  were  six  of  them. 
Volodya  stopped.  He  could  not  see  Konstantin.  The 
coach  hid  him.  But  he  knew  Konstantin  was  there  at 
the  tavern  door,  with  the  bomb  in  his  hand.  And  not  by 
knowledge,  nor  reasoning,  nor  feeling,  but  by  intuition 
sharp  and  sure  felt  by  the  whole  of  his  tense  body, 
Volodya  perceived  that  now,  half  a  minute  later,  there 
on  Podyacheskaya  Street,  there  would  occur  that  for 
which  he  dared  not  hope. 

For  one  second,  for  one  painfully  long  moment,  he 
felt  afraid.  He  wished  the  assault  would  not  occur, 
that  Konstantin  would  spare  the  coach,  and  everything 
would  go  on  today  as  it  had  yesterday.  But  now,  amid 
the  tranquillity  of  the  street,  amid  the  peaceful  clatter 
of  horses'  hoofs,  which  disturbed  the  stillness  of  the 
morning,  rang  out  an  immense,  deafening  explosion. 
Something  was  being  thrown  with  a  report  more  violent 
than  the  boom  of  cannon  or  a  peal  of  thunder.  From 
the  earth  a  yellow  column,  black  at  its  upper  end,  rose 
and  spread  in  a  brown  haze,  reaching  the  roofs  and  fill- 
ing the  whole  street  with  the  acrid  odour  of  smoke.  The 
pillar  spread  so  swiftly,  so  suddenly  and  reached  such 
lieights,  the  rumbling  was  so  loud,  the  sidewalks  quaked 
so  violently,  and  there  was  such  a  crash  of  glass  that 
Volodya  had  to  hold  his  breath.  But  gaining  control 
over  himself,  he  ran  to  Konstantin. 

While  he  was  running,  he  noticed  Epstein  on  the  other 
side  of  the  deserted  sidewalk,  running  from  the  coach, 


Wliat  Never  Happened  209 

not  to  it.  Epstein  was  in  a  long  torn  coat  and  without 
his  hat  and  glasses.  He  was  pale  and  waved  his  hands 
agitatedly.  Afraid  that  the  coach  would  start  again  and 
the  escort  would  defend  the  money  by  arms  and  still  not 
believing  that  the  thing  had  been  done,  Volodya,  pale  as 
a  sheet,  stopped  at  the  spot  where  the  explosion  had 
taken  place.  The  bloody  horses  entangled  in  the  ruins 
were  struggling  feebly  on  the  sidewalk.  One  of  them, 
scarcely  more  than  a  colt,  had  its  rump  half  torn  through 
and  its  flesh  burned.  It  fell  down  on  the  stones  con- 
vulsed, its  sides  heaving.  The  other,  trying  to  rise  and 
falling  back,  stretched  its  long  neck  and  made  efforts  to 
get  to  its  knees.  The  blood  was  running  in  hot  streams 
from  its  belly.  The  coach  remained  undamaged.  The 
driver  was  gone.  To  the  left  about  ten  feet  away  lay 
a  killed  Cossack.  He  had  on  a  grey  cloak  and  patched 
blue  breeches.  His  finn,  sunburned  face  framed  in  a 
little  dark  beard  was  as  calm  as  though  he  had  been  caught 
unawares  and  had  had  no  time  to  grasp  what  had  hap- 
pened. All  round  lay  pieces  of  cloaks,  splinters  of  glass, 
broken  shafts,  a  ripped-up  saddle,  and  something  else 
wet  and  large.  Without  looking  around  Volodya  pulled 
open  the  carriage  door.  In  the  corner  among  the  can- 
vas sacks  piled  up  to  the  top  sat  a  bank  messenger,  a 
young  man  of  about  twenty-five  with  a  small  dark  mous- 
tache. He  was  sitting  as  if  nailed  to  the  cushioned 
seat.  He  looked  at  Volodya  with  frightened,  pitiful,  un- 
comprehending eyes.  "There  is  the  money,"  flashed 
through  Volodya 's  mind.  He  seized  one  of  the  bags  and 
flung  it  on  the  ground.  At  that  instant  he  heard  the 
short  report  of  a  shot  back  of  him,  at  his  very  cheek, 
burning  and  deafening  him.  Volodya  turned  round 
frightened.    The   Fly,   with   a   rapacious   face  like   a 


210  What  Never  Happened 

hawk's,  his  thin  lips  compressed,  shot  at  the  bank  mes- 
senger at  very  close  range.  The  carriage  filled  with 
smoke.  ** What's  he  doing  that  for?"  thought  Volodya. 
The  messenger  did  not  budge.  Only  his  head  with  the 
caracal  cap  dropped  on  his  chest.  Volodya  and  the  Fly 
threw  out  the  bags  silently,  jostling  each  other  in  their 
haste  and  clumsily  bumping  against  the  messenger. 
There  were  ten  bags.  One  bulky  one,  evidently  filled 
with  silver  and  copper  coins,  they  left  on  the  seat. 
When  they  had  thrown  out  the  last  bag,  Volodya  looked 
around.  There  were  no  police.  Prokhor's  dappled  grey 
was  galloping  away  at  full  speed  down  Podyacheskaya 
Street,  and  from  behind  the  top  of  the  cab  a  lady's  hat 
showed.  It  was  Olga,  Volodya  knew,  Olga  carrying 
away  the  money.  "Thank  God,"  he  thought,  "thank 
God."  Two  persons  were  running  toward  Fontanka 
Street.  Volodya  recognized  Freze  and  Mitya  by  their 
gait.  The  Fly,  his  face  distorted  and  evil-looking,  seized 
Volodya  by  the  shoulders. 

"Go  away,  Vladimir  Ivanovich,"  he  said. 

Volodya  turned  obediently  after  him.  But  now  he 
noticed  something  he  had  not  observed  before.  Within 
a  few  feet  of  them,  on  the  dusty  sidewalk,  almost  at  the 
door  of  the  saloon,  Konstantin  was  resting,  leaning  the 
back  of  his  head  against  the  cast-iron  lantern.  His 
round,  freckled  face,  always  so  full  of  colour  and  so  alert, 
now  looked  bluish  grey.  His  eyes  were  muddy.  His  cap 
lay  on  the  sidewalk.  Konstantin  had  been  wounded  by 
his  own  bomb. 

"Go  away,"  repeated  the  Fly. 

Volodya  pushed  him  away  violently  and  went  up  to 
Konstantin  with  firm  steps.  He  bent  over  him.  His 
white  chest  was  uncovered,  and  his  eyes  stared  vacantly. 


Wliat  Never  Happened  211 

"Killed,"  thought  Volodya,  but  Konstantin,  with  a 
great  effort,  slowly  raised  his  eyes  and  sighed  deeply. 
Volodya  bent  closer  to  him.  And  there,  after  the  suc- 
cessful assault,  amidst  shattered  bodies  and  wounded 
horses,  over  the  dying  Konstantin,  he  suddenly  felt  a 
pain  convulsing  his  throat  and  his  eyes  moistening  with 
tears  for  the  first  time  in  his  life.  He  intended  to  leave, 
but  from  behind  him  issiied  a  loud,  shrill  cry : 

"Stop!     Stop!" 

The  next  instant  strong  hands  were  seizing  Volodya, 
His  life  was  in  danger.  At  the  realization  of  this,  his 
wonted  stern  determination  came  to  him  again.  No  one 
would  dare  to  arrest  him,  Vladimir  Gliebov,  Squaring 
his  massive  shoulders  and  with  muscles  taut,  he  made  a 
dash  forward.  On  his  strength  depended  his  safet}^  and 
with  no  doubts  in  his  soul  as  to  his  ultimate  safety,  he 
took  out  his  revolver.  He  did  not  see  Konstantin,  or  the 
Cossacks,  or  the  panting  horses  on  the  sidewalk.  All 
he  saw  was  unknown  men  in  short  fur  coats  who  were 
retreating  and  moving  backward  toward  the  wall.  He 
was  sure  the  comrades  had  gone  and  he  could  not  ex- 
pect help.     But  this  did  not  make  him  afraid. 

For  some  reason  he  was  specially  interested  in  a  par- 
ticular man  among  his  pursuers,  a  fat  flour-dealer  with 
a  scared  lymphatic  face  and  clipped  military  moustache. 
Biting  his  underlip  Volodya,  long  bearded  and  massive 
with  his  head  lowered  like  an  enraged  bull,  fired  at  him 
almost  mechanically  without  taking  aim.  The  man 
rushed  forward,  bent  backward  and  fell  to  the  ground. 
But  the  police  were  already  coming  up,  their  whistles 
were  blowing,  the  Cossacks  were  galloping  close,  and  a 
minute  later  an  unbroken  chain  of  steel  surrounded 
Volodya.     Afterwards,  he,  himself,  was  hardly  able  to 


212  What  Never  Happened 

tell  how  he  escaped  from  the  circle.  He  remembered 
that  he  ran,  ran  as  never  before  in  his  life,  and  that  his 
pursuers  were  overtaking  him.  He  knew  that  at  Nikol- 
sky  Street  Yelizar  ought  to  be  waiting  for  him  with  a 
horse  and  carriage.  Without  admitting  it  to  himself, 
Volodya  hoped  Yelizar  was  still  there.  At  the  half-open 
gates  he  met  a  porter  in  a  cap  and  a  white  apron  who 
tried  to  bar  his  way  with  outstretched  arms.  Volodya 
did  not  lose  his  presence  of  mind.  Not  looking  at  the 
porter,  but  circling  around  him,  he  fired  twice.  The 
porter  fell.  Afterward  Volodya  as  in  a  dream  saw 
Yelizar 's  frightened  face  and  the  black  horse.  He  saw 
Yelizar  grasp  the  revolver  and  heard  a  report.  Then 
came  the  jogging  of  the  carriage  and  the  gleam  of  a 
street-lamp,  and  the  houses  began  to  flash  by.  It  was 
not  until  they  reached  the  Nevsky  and  the  exhausted 
thoroughbred,  snorting  and  foaming,  slackened  his  mad 
pace  that  Volodya  realized  that  Yelizar  had  saved  his 
life. 


CHAPTER  VII 

WITHOUT  awaiting  the  closing  of  the  con- 
vention Bolotov  left  secretly  for  St.  Peters- 
burg, taking  a  roundabout  route  through 
Gatchina.  In  St.  Petersburg  he  sent  a  code  message  to 
Arkady  Rosenstern  for  an  appointment  with  him  at 
Ikonikov,  the  lawyer's  house  on  Sergeyevsky  Street.  He 
looked  forward  to  the  meeting  with  impatience.  Rosen- 
stern,  who  had  already  been  an  active  terrorist,  would 
understand  and  approve  of  his  course,  and  help  him  with 
advice. 

Ikonikov,  fat  and  bald,  with  a  weary,  smooth-shaven 
face  and  blue  veins  webbing  his  cheeks,  received  Bolotov 
like  an  old  acquaintance. 

"I  am  veiy  glad,  very  glad  indeed.  Are  you  still  in 
good  health?  Arkady  Borisovich  has  not  yet  come.  I 
hope,  my  dear  sir,  you  will  dine  with  me  ?  He  spoke  in 
a  hoarse,  short-breathed  voice,  grasping  Bolotov 's  hands. 
"News  flies  quickly,"  he  said  lowering  his  voice. 
* '  Rumours  are  afloat  that  you  performed  wonders  at  the 
barricade.  You  deserve  the  iron  cross.  There,  you  are 
angry  already — quite  a  character!  I  won't  say  any- 
thing like  that  again,  I  really  won't.  Excuse  me  for 
being  curious,-  but  what  was  decided  at  the  convention  ? 
Not  over  yet?  Indeed!  You  know  we  live  like  moles 
in  court  and  at  Madame  Dudu's  on  Kreskovsky  Street. 
That  is  our  whole  life.     Ha-ha-ha !     Have  a  cigar?" 

Bolotov  smoked  and  listened  with  pleasure.    After  the 

213 


214  What  Never  Happened 

awful  days  at  the  barricade,  the  noise  of  the  Party  con- 
vention, the  dust  and  suffocating  heat  of  the  train,  it  was 
pleasant  to  be  in  a  clean  room,  see  a  neatly  dressed  per- 
son, who  exuded  the  odour  of  cigars  and  wine  and  was 
so  remote  from  Party  matters.  Ikonikov  was  a  wine- 
bibber  and  a  gambler,  but  he  had  connections  and  con- 
tributed generally  to  terrorism.  He  was  a  surprise  to 
Volodya,  this  elderly  half-drunken  being,  exhausted  by 
various  diseases,  living  under  the  constant  threat  of 
exile,  and  yet  in  spite  of  that  menace  never  refusing  to 
help. 

Evading  his  indiscreet  questions,  Bolotov  smiled  and 
said  idly: 

*  *  How  is  it  you  are  not  afraid  ? ' ' 

"Who  told  you  I  am  not  afraid?"  laughed  Ikonikov, 
adjusting  his  gold  pince-nez.  "I  am  afraid,  my  lad. 
How  can  I  help  being  afraid  ?  If  they  should  catch  me, 
they  would  not  consider  the  fact  that  I  am  a  respectable 
member  of  the  bar.  They  would  send  me  away  'where 
Mokar  never  chased  his  calf.'  I  am  afraid  of  every- 
body, of  the  porter,  the  policeman,  even  of  you.  Ha- 
ha-ha !    What  can  I  do  ?     Let  things  take  their  course. ' ' 

* '  Then  why  do  you  receive  us  ? " 

"Why?  My  God,  what  can  I  do?  Sit  by  the  fire- 
side and  grow  thin  brooding  over  my  inviolability?  Or 
shall  I  defend  the  sixth  larceny  at  the  district  court? 
Or  recover  bills?  Or  make  liberal  speeches  at  the  ban- 
quets? We  do  make  liberal  speeches,  my  dear  man, 
we  do  make  them.  Our  tongues  are  flexible.  We  in- 
vestigate and  analyse,  we  make  a  revolution — ^in  the 
club.  You  know  in  Glebuspensky 's  book  one  merchant 
says,  'We  lie  from  morning  to  night.'  That's  what  our 
business  is,  too.    We  move  our  whole  life  long  to  and 


^What  Never  Happened  215 

from  the  dog  knows  what.  Now  we  are  lying  too.  Let 
them  arrest  us."  He  became  silent,  and  adjusted  his 
pince-nez  again.  "Ah,  my  dear  man,  je  m'en  fiche,  and 
that's  all.  "We  are  going  to  be  there.  Ah,  there  is  his 
excellency,  Arkady  Borisovich." 

Rosenstern  was  about  thirty-two  years  old,  of  small 
build,  with  a  thick  rough  beard  and  black  eyes  flashing 
youthfully.  He  was  dressed  with  the  sporty  taste  of  a 
foreign  commercial  traveller,  in  a  long  light  grey  over- 
coat and  striped  trousers.  His  appearance  was  very 
mild,  typically  Jewish,  though  the  strong  short  neck  and 
the  broad  round  shoulders  gave  the  impression  of  ob- 
stinacy and  power.  He  held  out  his  hand  to  Bolotov, 
then  turned  to  Ikonikov,  and  said  jokingly,  with  a 
forced  accent: 

^'Cher  maitre,  please  leave  us  alone.  You  under- 
stand, a  meeting  of  friends  after  a  long  separation. 
Something  unusual.     Yes?" 

But  Ikonikov  was  already  gone. 

Rosenstem  stopped  smiling,  went  to  the  door  and 
turned  the  key  in  the  lock. 

"Well,  Bolotov,  I  heard  you  could  not  come  to  an  un- 
derstanding with  the  committee.     Tell  me,  is  it  true?" 

"Yes,  it  is  true."    Bolotov  was  confused. 

"May  I  know  why?" 

"I  want  to  work  with  the  terrorists." 

"Hm,  terror?"  said  Rosenstern  pulling  at  his  beard 
and  looking  at  Bolotov  attentively.  "Terror?  "Why 
exactly  terror  ? ' ' 

Bolotov  rose.  The  same  wearisome  agitation  that  he 
had  experienced  in  the  committee  took  hold  of  him  again. 
He  realized  he  would  not  find  simple  words  to  express 
what  had  troubled  him  for  a  whole  year.    Rosenstern  sat 


216  What  Never  Happened 

calmly  in  the  soft  chair  with  his  knees  crossed  looking  at 
him  fixedly  and  piercingly,  with  his  head  inclined  on  one 
side. 

''You  asked — "  Bolotov  at  last  began,  excited  and 
flushing.  "Very  well,  I'll  answer.  Have  you  reflected 
whether  one  can  be  on  the  committee  and  not  work  for 
terror?  You  see,  the  committee  disposes  of  others' 
lives.  It  sends  men  to  death?  But  when  they  sign 
death-warrants — how  can  it  be  right?  There's  Arseny 
Ivanovich,  does  he  get  his  right  because  of  his  age  ?  Or 
Doctor  Berg,  because  of  his  ability?  Or  Vera  Andrey- 
evna,  because  of  the  years  she  has  spent  in  prison,  or 
Gruzdiev  because  of  his  work?  Why  should  David, 
Vanya,  Seriozha,  some  locksmiths  from  the  Putiovsky 
factory  go  to  their  death  unquestioningly  with  a  bomb 
in  their  hands?  Our  blessings  upon  them.  But  the 
priests  are  the  ones  to  give  blessings,  and  we  are  not 
priests.  Tell  me,  have  I  a  right  on  the  committee  when 
I  don't  sacrifice  my  life,  when  I  never  shed  blood?  I 
am  always,  always  afraid  of  bloodshed.  Tell  me,  now 
can  I  ?  Where  is  my  right  to  look  on  in  cold  blood  while 
others  are  dying?     Tell  me,  what  right  have  I?" 

He  became  silent,  and  lit  his  cigarette  with  trembling 
fingers.  Eosenstern  would  not  understand,  he  felt  sure, 
any  more  than  Doctor  Berg  or  Vera  Andreyevna. 

"You  see,  my  brother — my  brother  was  killed  at  the 
barricades, ' '  he  went  on  in  a  broken  voice.  ' '  The  Party 
created  a  future,  a  happy,  glorious  future,  the  kingdom 
of  God  on  earth.  Isn't  that  so?  Every  one  of  us 
creates  it.  There  lies  the  meaning  and  justification  of 
the  countless  sacrifices.  But  in  our  work  lies  a  false- 
hood. Some  do  the  commanding.  It's  a  government 
and  the  governed ;  soldiers  and  generals.     The  committee 


What  Never  Happened  217 

command  and  the  others  die  resignedly.  A  certain  law- 
yer Ikonikov,  even  he  searched  for  the  truth.  But  we  ? " 
he  finished  indignantly,  suprised  by  the  harshness  of  his 
own  words. 

Rosenstern  listened  quietly.  "When  Bolotov  was  done 
he  asked  quickly: 

"Well,  how  should  it  be,  according  to  your  conception 
of  the  matter?" 

"How  should  it  be?  I  don't  know.  I  don't  under- 
take to  decide  for  the  whole  Party.  I  can  decide  only 
for  myself.  I  don 't,  I  won 't  do  what  is  bad  in  my  eyes. 
I  am  not  going  to  send  people  to  their  death." 

"I  will  not  do  what  I  think  is  bad,"  repeated  Rosen- 
stern  slowly,  weighing  every  word.  ''Very  well.  But 
is  to  kill  good  or  not?"  he  asked  suddenly,  and  smiled. 
His  face  became  strong  and  sharp,  and  Bolotov  felt  as 
if  a  different  person  were  confronting  him,  not  a  com- 
mercial traveller,  but  a  powerful  sovereign  who  knew 
his  own  right. 

''To  kill?    It's  bad  to  kill,  too." 

"So."  Rosenstern  smiled  again.  **But  you  have 
made  up  your  mind  to  work  for  terror.  That  means, 
you  have  decided  to  kill.  You  see,  the  problem  is  not  so 
simple.  It  is  very  easy  to  say;  that  is  bad,  and  one 
ought  not  do  it.  Sometimes  a  thing  is  bad,  but  has  to  be 
done  anyway.  It  is  necessary  and  even  good  to  do  it. 
Sometimes  it  is  good  to  do  bad,  which  is  not  a  paradox. 
You  say  to  kill  is  bad?  You  do,  don't  you?  But  to 
make  terror  is  good.  Can  you  dispute  it  ?  of  course  not. 
Well.  You  see — you  know,  I  used  to  work  with  the 
terrorists.  I  left  and  now  I  am  active  on  the  committee. 
Do  you  think  I  did  wrong?" 

"With  you  it  is  a  different  matter.    You  were  in 


218  What  Never  Happened 

terror.  You  have  a  right  to  be  on  the  committee." 
"I?  A  different  matter?  Why  different?  Why  do 
you  think  I  am  ready  to  die  at  any  time  ?  And  if  I  am 
not  ready  ?  Well,  suppose  I  am  not  ready.  That  means 
I  am  wrong  ?  Listen  to  me  one  minute.  What  do  we  do  ? 
We  make  a  revolution.  An  all-Russian  revolution,  a 
mass  revolution.  Well,  then,  there  must  be  somebody 
to  write  books,  print  them,  carry  on  the  propaganda, 
organize  the  masses,  must  there  not?" 
"Of  course  there  must." 

"Very  well,  then.    Must  the  Party  be  managed  or 
not?" 

"The  Party?" 

"Yes,  I  said  Party,  but  not  the  revolution." 
"Oh,  yes,  it  has  to—" 

"Maybe  it  not  only  has  to,  but  what  it  does  is  even 
good?  How  should  things  be  arranged?  You  say  it  is 
not  permissible  to  manage  the  Party  if  one  cannot  him- 
self be  active — kill.  But  you  also  say  it  has  to  be  man- 
aged. Who  is  going  to  manage  it?  The  terrorists? 
But  a  terrorist  lives  a  week,  and  not  everybody  can 
serve  on  the  committee.  I  am  speaking  very  seriously 
for  I  know.  I  myself  was  active  in  terror.  It  is  hard, 
nobody  knows  how  hard,  to  give  away  one's  life.  It  is 
still  harder  to  kill.  But,  believe  me,  it  is  immeasurably 
harder  than  anything  else — "  Rosenstern  paused  and 
looked  Bolotov  straight  in  the  eyes — "to  dispose  of  the 
fate  of  others.  That  requires  tremendous  power,  much 
more  than  for  terror.  One  has  to  be  heroic,  to  take  the 
responsibility  for  bloodshed,  for  the  bloodshed  of  his 
comrades.  Yes,  it  is  a  necessary  work  to  watch  people  go 
to  death  and  not  go  oneself.  You  say  the  committee 
sends  people  to  kill.    Who  can  send  you  ?    You  dare  to 


What  Never  Happened  219 

send  another?  Is  it  that  a  terrorist  goes  because  you 
send  him?  Because  the  committee  sends  him?  No,  he 
goes  freely.  He  and  his  conscience  send  him  because 
he  cannot  do  otherwise,  because  he  ought  to  go  for  the 
sake  of  the  people.  Think  over  why  you  go  to  terrorism. 
Isn't  it  because  you  have  not  sufficient  strength?" 
Rosenstem  again  looked  sharply  into  Bolotov's  eyes, 
smiling  a  little.  But  now  Bolotov  was  not  confused. 
He  knew  where  the  error  lay. 

' '  Let  us  drop  the  question  of  killing ;  we  are  both  un- 
able to  solve  it.  To  kill  is  a  sin,  but  in  killing  there  is 
no  falsehood.  One  kills  and  one  is  killed.  Straight 
and  clear.  But  here  lies  the  untruth.  If  one  is  a 
school-teacher,  he  ought  to  teach  the  alphabet  in  school, 
but  not  ask  people  to  unsheathe  the  sword.  If  one  never 
saw  death  one  ought  not  to  command  others  to  slaugh- 
ter. I  don't  talk  about  you,  about  Arseny  Ivanovich, 
about  Doctor  Berg.  I  talk  about  myself.  Only  those 
make  the  revolution  and  create  the  future  who  are  ready 
to  sacrifice  their  souls  for  friends.  Do  you  hear  me? 
Souls!  All  that  you  were  saying  is  very  true,  very 
sensible,  but  my  conscience  refuses  to  take  your  word 
for  it.  Do  you  understand?  My  conscience.  One  has 
to  acquire  the  spirit  of  giving.  Death  is  the  only  val- 
uable sacrifice." 

"But  we  make  every  sacrifice,"  Rosenstem  answered 
quietly. 

"You,  but  not  I.    I  never  risked  my  life  before." 

Rosenstem  shrugged  his  shoulders  angrily. 

"You  know,  Bolotov,  your  point  of  view  is  bad,  yes, 
bad.  It  is  the  point  of  view  of  a  man  that's  been  con- 
quered, the  point  of  view,  I  should  say,  of  a  romanti- 
cist." 


220  WHat  Never  Happened 

"Let  it  be  the  point  of  view  of  a  romanticist.  Listen, 
Arkady  Borisovich,  really,  what  is  it  that  you  are  say- 
ing? You  are  saying  that  for  the  sake  of  the  Party 
everything  is  permitted." 

Kosenstern  rose  and  walked  the  room  with  Bolotov. 

' '  Yes,  if  you  will  have  it  so.  But  after  all,  not  every- 
thing." 

"Not  everything?  Well,  what  is  not  permitted? 
Expropriation  of  private  property?" 

"Yes,  for  one  thing." 

"But  you  say  such  expropriation  is  not  permitted  not 
because  it  is  a  bad  thing  to  kill  people,  but  because  it 
lowers  the  dignity  of  the  Party,  impairs  Party  discipline, 
exposes  to  the  temptation  of  money,  in  a  word,  is  bad 
for  the  revolution.     Tell  me,  is  that  so?" 

Rosenstern  stopped  short  in  his  walking.  He  bent 
his  head.  His  neck  became  tense  and  his  broad  shoul- 
ders stooped.  He  was  not  pleased  that  Bolotov  opposed 
him  so  stubbornly,  and  used  words  he  thought  unworthy 
of  a  Party  member.  Looking  down  at  the  carpet  he  said 
with  evident  irritation: 

* '  Well,  not  at  all  so,  of  course — "  He  was  interrupted 
by  Ikonikov's  hoarse  voice  at  the  door. 

"Let  us  eat,  gentlemen  eomspirators.  Dinner  is 
served." 

When  Bolotov  left  and  went  to  the  Dvorzhaya  Quay, 
the  bugler  was  playing  the  hymn  Ad  Gloriam  at  the 
port.     It  was  cold  and  dark. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A  WEEK  after  the  encounter  with  Arkady  Rosen- 
stern,  Bolotov  was  informed  by  Arseny 
Ivanovich  about  the  meeting  place.  He  went 
to  Moscow,  and  in  an  alley  near  the  Piatnitza- 
Paraskeva  Church  he  found  the  popular  fighter  in 
the  Party,  Ippolit.  There  were  many  legends  going 
about  concerning  him.  Rumour  had  it  that  he  was  the 
son  of  a  member  of  the  senate,  a  student  of  the  military 
academy,  and  devoted  his  millions  solely  to  the  commit- 
tee, and  none  but  Volodya's  cool  daring  could  be  com- 
pared to  his.  Slender  and  thin,  delicate  in  build  as  a 
girl,  Ippolit  gave  a  hint  in  unfinished  phrases  that  the 
assassination  of  the  chief  army  prosecutor  was  being  ar- 
ranged. Not  mentioning  one  word  about  the  squad,  he 
asked  if  Bolotov  would  undertake  to  be  on  watch  in  St, 
Petersburg  in  the  disguise  of  a  driver.  Bolotov,  though 
offended  by  his  excessive  secrecy,  agreed  nevertheless. 
Ippolit  made  an  appointment  with  him  for  a  month  later 
on  the  corner  of  Gorokhovaya  and  Sadovaya  Streets. 
Bolotov  left  Moscow  by  the  next  train. 

When  he  came  out  of  the  Nikolayevsky  station  in  his 
high  boots  and  short  coat  and  saw  the  crowded  Nev- 
sky  Prospect  sparkling  in  the  sun,  he  realized  for  the 
first  time  the  importance  of  his  decision.  As  long  as  he 
was  drawing  up  reports  for  the  committee,  disputing 
with  Gruzdiev  and  disagreeing  with  Rosenstern,  as  long 
as  he  only  talked  idly  about  terror,  he  could  not  realize 

what  awaited  him.    It  seemed  as  though  the  only  thing 

221 


222  What  Never  Happened 

that  mattered  was  that  he  was  sincere  to  the  bottom  of 
his  soul,  ready  to  sacrifice  his  life,  and  everything  else 
was  a  mere  trifle,  unworthy  of  consideration.  The  an- 
ticipation of  an  unavoidable  death  was  so  keen,  gripped 
him  so  strongly,  so  filled  all  his  thought,  that  he  was 
unaffected  by  the  nuisance  of  the  daily  disagreeable 
tasks.  But  here,  on  the  noisy  Nevsky,  among  the  gay, 
satisfied  crowds  utterly  indifferent  to  terror,  he  knew 
there  was  nobody  to  help  him  and  fully  comprehended 
for  the  first  time  what  a  burden  he  had  taken  up.  For  a 
moment  he  was  frightened.  He  had  become  accustomed 
to  privations  in  Moscow,  but  at  the  barricades  he  had 
had  the  consciousness  of  not  being  alone.  Side  by  side, 
shoulder  to  shoulder  with  him  were  Seriozha,  Pronka, 
Roman  Alekseyevich,  the  whole  squad,  and  back  of  the 
squad,  the  whole  of  Moscow,  awakened  by  the  revolt. 
He  had  a  vivid  picture  of  it  all — Pronka  firing,  the 
dragoons  falling  back,  the  shops  closed  with  rattling 
bolts,  the  barricades  of  snow  being  erected  and  the  peo- 
ple assembling  in  wild  mobs.  Perhaps  the  fraternal 
feeling,  the  consciousness  of  even  death  being  beautiful 
in  company,  buoyed  him  up  and  gave  him  the  strength 
of  calm  to  defend  the  Party  banner  to  the  last  shot. 
Here  in  St.  Petersburg,  on  the  Nevsky,  lost  in  the  crowd, 
torn  away  from  his  habitual  affairs,  half  noblemen  and 
half  peasant,  neither  a  member  of  the  committee  nor  a 
driver,  he  had  no  sense  of  the  inspiring  ties  of  comrade- 
ship and  lost  faith  in  them.  He  knew  that  somewhere 
the  committee  was  working.  Arseny  Ivanovich  was 
commanding,  Aliosha  Gruzdiev  was  teaching  the  peas- 
ants, and  Doctor  Berg  was  printing  pamphlets.  But 
that  was  a  faraway,  irrevocable  past.  Nobody  was 
around,  neither  comrades,   nor   friends,  nor  acquaint- 


o 


What  Never  Happened  22 

ances,  and  he  had  only  himself  to  depend  upon.  He 
tried  to  convince  himself  that  this  was  not  true ;  that  he 
was  a  member  of  the  squad,  that  the  squad  was  a  part 
of  the  organization,  and  that  every  comrade,  every 
soldier  of  the  revolution  was  in  sympathy  with  him,  and 
grieved  over  his  misfortunes.  But  the  party  program 
did  not  satisfy  him.  It  was  as  if  a  transformation  had 
taken  place"  and  he  was  not  the  revolutionist  Audrey 
Bolotov,  but  as  was  written  in  his  passport,  the  peasant 
Aleksey  Maxinov  Jurkov,  who  had  come  to  the  capital 
to  work.  Standing  in  meditation  on  the  Nevsky,  un- 
certain where  to  go,  he  crossed  the  square  and  turned  to 
Goncharnaya  Street.  At  the  comer  an  old  mole-eyed 
driver  was  dozing.  Bolotov  came  near  to  the  worn-out 
horse  and  touched  the  bridle  lightly.  The  horse 
straightened  up.  The  old  man  grumbled  without  mov- 
ing. 

"Well,  don't  cut  capers,  countryman." 

"Grandfather,  ah,  grandfather,"  said  Bolotov,  and 
lifted  his  hat. 

"What?" 

"Listen,  grandfather — " 

"Eh?" 

"It's  like  this,  grandfather.  I  came,  you  see,  to  Piter 
(St.  Petersburg) — "  He  ceased,  at  a  loss  how  to  con- 
tinue.    The  old  man  looked  at  him,  mumbling  the  while. 

"I  came  to  Piter — " 

"What  did  you  come  for,  eh?" 

"Well,  for  the  same  thing.    We  are  drivers — " 

"I  cannot  hear  you.     Speak  louder.     Eh?" 

"Drivers,  I  said — " 

"Drivers?" 

"Yes." 


224  What  Never  Happened 

"So,  so,  so.     That  is  good." 

"You  see,  a  driver,"  continued  Bolotov  uncertainly, 
"you  see,  I  don't  know — everything  is  wrong.  I  cannot 
find  my  way  in  Piter.  I  have  nobody  here.  I  tried  to 
find  my  countrymen.  But  they  were  gone,  God  knows 
where.  How  can  I  find  them?  And  I  don't  know  what 
to  do.     Do  me  a  favour,  grandfather,  oblige  me — " 

The  driver  again  mumbled. 

"So,  so,  so.    And  where  do  you  come  from?" 

"From  Moscow.  I  worked  in  the  tavern  of  Ya- 
kovliov. ' ' 

Bolotov,  feeling  he  ought  to  give  some  explanation  of 
the  good  luck  by  which  he,  the  servant,  had  turned 
master,  stammered  for  a  minute,  and  said  carefully, 
looking  aside: 

"My  father  died — in  the  village.  "Well,  a  cottage — 
this  and  that.  I  sold  everything.  'Let  us  go  to  Piter,' I 
thought." 

In  spite  of  being  used  to  lying  for  the  sake  of  his  work, 
Bolotov  blushed  suddenly.  The  old  man  believed  in 
every  word  so  naively,  without  reasoning,  was  so  trust- 
ful and  ready  with  his  whole  soul  to  help,  shelter  and 
advise,  that  Bolotov  was  ashamed  of  his  unavoidable  lie. 
But  the  driver  did  not  notice  his  confusion. 

"Your  father  died?  Too  bad!  Do  you  hear,  coun- 
tryman, is  it  time  to  go  home?"  He  yawned  and 
blinked  his  watery  eyes.  "If  you  care  to  sit  down  at 
home  Pavel  Petrovich  will  tell  you  all  about  driving  in 
Piter.  He  will  instruct  you.  Don't  hesitate.  Al- 
though Pavlovin  Petrovich  drinks  a  little,  yet  he  is  such 
a  good  fellow.     You  are  from  Moscow,  aren't  you?" 

"From  Kaluga." 

"Kalutzky,  then.    Well  with  God,  let  us  go.    [Why 


What  Never  Happened  225 

not  help?  One  can  always  oblige  a  good  person. 
Damn!"  He  smacked  his  lips,  pulled  the  reins,  and 
they  crept  back  along  the  Nevsky.  The  old  man  sighed, 
groaned,  and  seemingly  forgot  about  Bolotov.  They 
travelled  along  at  a  jog-trot  and  stopped  at  the  Baltic 
railroad-station,  at  a  lonely  almost  empty  alley.  The 
yard  was  muddy,  the  trampled  straw  sodden.  A  flock 
of  fat  pigeons  were  flying  about  with  a  flapping  of  their 
wings.  The  air  was  acrid  with  odours  of  dung  and  hide. 
At  the  right  appeared  the  mournful-looking,  dilapidated 
barns,  and  from  the  open  door  of  the  stall  there  came  the 
rhythmical  clatter  of  hoofs.  At  the  left  was  an  un- 
painted  stone  wing.  At  the  threshold  stood  a  bare- 
headed peasant  woman  scolding  volubly.  In  the  comer 
near  the  stall  a  swarthy,  unkempt  peasant  was  squatting 
on  his  heels  cleaning  a  cab.  Paying  no  attention  to  the 
woman  he  continued  cleaning,  gloomily,  stupefied  as  if 
after  a  drunken  bout. 

''Drunkard,  devil !  He  sold  the  harness  and  spent  the 
money  in  drink.  There  is  no  getting  rid  of  you.  Even 
the  devil  wouldn  't  take  you,  you  unbaptized  murderer ! ' ' 

"What  harness?  Where?  Well,  keep  quiet.  Could 
you  ride  with  such  a  gentleman?  You  cannot  under- 
stand that,  fool." 

Pavlovin  Petrovich,  striking  his  chest,  said  with  con- 
viction : 

"Don't  mind  her.  She  is  a  good  woman.  Well,  I  did 
drink  a  little.  Can't  a  man  even  drink?  A  poor  man 
is  like  a  fly.  Where  there's  a  gate,  there's  a  house; 
where  there's  a  drink,  there's  a  bed.  But  we  will  settle 
your  affair,  don't  worry.  If  I  say  so,  if  I,  Pavlovin 
Petrovich,  say  it,  it  is  true.  Just  as  if  it  were  down  in 
writing.    We'll  buy  a  horse,  a  cab  and  a  sledge,  too. 


226  What  Never  Happened 

You  will  be  a  first-class  coaclunan.  Yes,  yes,  tomorrow 
we  11  go  to  the  horse  market  and  attend  right  to  it.  The 
horse-dealer — nothing,  not  one  penny.  For  you,  kind 
soul,  the  master's  eye  makes  the  horse  fat.  Isn't  that 
so  ?  Ah,  what  a  mare  I  had !  "What  a  mare !  What  a 
gentleman  she  used  to  pull!  'Driver,  to  the  Islands!' 
'How  much?'  'Whatever  you  please.'  And  a  fifty 
ruble  note  was  in  his  pocket.  Don't  you  believe  it? 
In  Christ's  name  let  us  have  a  drink,  Aliosha.  What? 
Domina  Vasilye\Tia  may  scold.  What,  am  I  not  a  hu- 
man being?  I  shouldn't  even  drink?  My  God,  how's 
that  ?     What,  a  man  is  not  even  to  drink  ? ' ' 

Bolotov  drank  the  brandy  down  in  disgust,  and  lis- 
tened to  Strelov's  drunken  babble.  He  was  glad  he  had 
found  shelter  so  quickly,  and  would  go  to  the  horse- 
market  on  the  morrow,  buy  a  horse  and  begin  the  stren- 
uous life  of  a  driver.  But  the  feeling  of  guilt  did  not 
leave  him  for  a  moment.  He  told  himself  that  circum- 
stances had  forced  him  to  dissemble,  and  one  word  of 
the  truth  might  ruin  him.  Nevertheless,  he  could  not 
feel  at  peace. 

Pavlovin  Petrovich,  red,  sweaty,  and  hardly  able  to 
stand  on  his  feet,  tried  to  kiss  him  with  his  sloppy  lips. 

"Kiss  me,  friend  Aliosha.  So,  so — kiss.  Well,  I  see 
what  kind  of  a  person  you  are.  But  you  can  depend — 
depend  upon  me.  I  will  fix  everything.  Well,  we 
drink,  Aliosha,  yes?"  He  rested  his  head  in  his  hand, 
and  fell  asleep  at  once. 

Bolotov  looked  around.  It  was  hard  to  distinguish 
anything  in  the  smoke.  How  strange,  Bolotov  thought, 
that  he,  the  revolutionist,  should  be  sitting  there  in  that 
fetid  tavern,  and  should  just  have  been  speaking  with 
that  snoring  sot,  and  at  night  would  be  returning  not  to 


What  Never  Happened  227 

his  hotel  but  to  the  driver's  house.  When  he  lay  down 
on  the  hard,  vermin  infested  camp-bed  and  heard  old 
Porfirych  praying  in  the  corner  near  the  ikon,  and  saw 
him  bowing  and  crossing  himself;  and  heard  Strelov, 
through  the  thin  partition,  hiccoughing  loudly,  and  at 
his  side  saw  an  unknown  peasant  stretched  out  asleep, 
he  again  felt  that  he  had  been  left  completely  to  his  own 
resources.  But  he  was  no  longer  afraid.  He  was  even 
pleased  that  there  was  nobody  to  help  him.  He  fell 
asleep  and  dreamed  of  the  tavern,  The  Friends,  of 
the  tumbledown  stables  and  the  flock  of  pigeons  that 
flew  about  flapping  their  wings. 


CHAPTER  IX 

TWO  months  elapsed.  Bolotov  had  become  ac- 
customed to  the  life  of  a  driver,  or  as  Doctor 
Berg  called  it,  the  life  of  a  servant.  lie  no 
longer  noticed  the  drunkenness  and  the  dirt  and  the 
scoldings,  and  he  did  not  complain  about  the  exhausting 
work.  He  was  happy  he  was  not  like  the  others,  happy 
his  hands  were  toil-hardened  and  happy  he  was  not  afraid 
of  work,  and  did  not  live  the  easy,  idle  life  of  the  rich,  but 
shared  the  burdens  of  the  common  people.  He  rose  at 
four  in  the  morning,  and  stumbled  through  the  darkness 
to  the  stable,  yawning  and  shivering  with  cold.  Squab- 
bler, the  black  stallion  that  Strelov  had  selected  at  the 
market,  old  but  still  strong  and  sleek,  would  recognize  his 
tread  and  neigh  joyfully,  tossing  his  head  and  pawing 
the  ground.  Bolotov  would  feed  him,  pat  his  smooth 
sides,  and  run  back  to  the  house  through  the  frozen  snow; 
The  house  was  stuffy,  the  sleeping  drivers  snored  and 
a  smoky  night  lamp  cast  a  dim  uncertain  light.  Bolotov 
would  lie  down  in  his  clothes  between  Porfirych  and  the 
young  labourer  Senka  and  sleep  until  dawn.  Early  in 
the  morning  he  would  go  to  The  Friends  and  slowly  and 
seriously  drink  his  hot  tea.  He  became  quite  at  home 
in  the  place,  and  was  known  as  a  sober,  well-to-do  ex- 
emplary man.  Domina  Vasilyevna  set  him  up  as  an 
example  to  the  "murderers  and  drunkards."  Senka 
took  his  hat  off  to  him,  Porfirych  talked  about  God,  and 
Paviin  Petrovich   occasionally  "borrowed"   a  "green- 

228 


What  Never  Happened  229 

back,"  without  his  wife's  knowledge.  Even  the  stout 
head  concierge,  Supritkin,  would  offer  his  hairy  paw  in 
greeting  and  inquire  how  "business"  was  and  what  he 
was  making. 

As  had  been  agreed,  Bolotov  met  Ippolit  on  the  corner 
of  Gorokhovaya  and  Sadovaya  Streets.  Contrary  to  the 
underground  rules,  Ippolit  informed  him  that  there  were 
four  drivers  in  the  squad,  Bolotov,  Vanya,  Seriozha,  and 
the  Vilna  tanner  Abram,  and  along  what  streets  "His 
Excellency"  the  prosecutor  drove  as  a  rule.  Every 
week  he  would  invariably  go  to  the  Tzarskovelsky  Sta- 
tion, and  take  a  special  train  to  Tzarskoye  Selo.  But  in 
none  of  Bolotov 's  frequent  watches  on  Fontanka  and  Za- 
gorodnaya  Streets  did  he  ever  see  the  prosecutor.  Once 
he  thought  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  long,  withered, 
well-known  face  on  the  platform  of  a  street-car.  But 
Ippolit  decided  Bolotov  had  been  mistaken.  His  Ex- 
cellency always  went  in  a  closed  carriage,  driven  by  his 
own  horses. 

Bolotov  could  not  accustom  himself  to  the  constant 
keeping  on  watch.  He  had  no  fear  of  being  arrested. 
In  every  kind  of  weather,  in  rain  and  slush,  fog  and 
frost,  he  would  stop  his  cab  at  the  places  designated  by 
Ippolit,  and  keep  his  eye  on  the  Tzarskovelsky  Station. 
It  became  his  steady  occupation.  He  now  saw  that  the 
fighting  terrorist  "work,"  to  which  he  had  so  passion- 
ately striven  to  attain  and  which  he  had  valued  so  highly, 
consisted  of  ordinary  spy-duty.  Often  as  he  sat  on  his 
driver's  seat  he  would  reproach  himself  for  living  like  a 
spy;  but  then  he  would  tell  himself  it  had  to  be.  Suc- 
cess could  not  be  obtained  otherwise,  a  "terrorist  act" 
could  not  be  accomplished.  And  doing  violence  to  his 
conscience,  feeling  that  it  was  undignified,  disgraceful 


230  What  Never  Happened 

to  spy,  but  to  leave  the  squad  would  be  still  more  so,  he 
allowed  his  thoughts  to  turn  in  anguish  to  his  family,  to 
luddy  Misha  who  had  been  slain,  to  Sasha  in  his  naval 
officer's  uniform,  to  his  father  Nikolay  Stepanovieh,  and 
particularly  to  his  mother.  "What  would  she  say?"  he 
thought,  as  he  stood  in  the  rain,  watching  the  street  in- 
tently. "Would  she  understand?"  At  such  moments 
he  felt  a  passionate  desire  to  look  upon  his  mother's  kind 
face,  her  affectionate  blue  eyes,  her  silken  shawl,  embrace 
her  and  whisper  a  confession  of  his  life  into  her  ear. 
But  he  knew  he  was  dreaming.  With  head  bent,  curbing 
his  horse,  tired  and  impatient  from  long  standing  on  one 
spot,  he  would  return  at  a  quick  pace  to  the  hotel,  where 
he  greeted  Senka  jokingly  and  went  with  Strelov  to  the 
restaurant  to  hear  the  "machine." 

One  day,  toward  the  end  of  March,  when  the  con- 
cierges were  clearing  away  the  discoloured  ice,  and 
streams  of  melting  snow  were  beginning  to  run  in  the 
yards  over  the  rotten  straw,  and  the  air  began  to  smell 
of  manure,  Bolotov  went  to  keep  an  appointment  with 
Seriozha.  They  saw  each  other  seldom  and  then 
stealthily  and  only  with  the  knowledge  of  Ippolit.  It 
was  already  past  seven,  but  the  setting  sun  was  still 
shining  over  the  sea.  Bolotov  quickly  passed  the 
Ismailovsky  armoury,  turned  into  Fontanka  Street,  and 
stopped  at  a  hack-driver's  cafe  near  the  church  of  the 
Holy  Mother.  He  tethered  his  horse,  entered  the  main 
room,  and  after  looking  around  for  some  minutes,  at 
last  found  Seriozha  in  the  pushing  noisy  crowd. 
Seriozha,  tall  and  blond,  with  close-cropped  hair,  was 
arrayed  in  a  long  dirty  coat,  and  bore  little  resemblance 
to  the  fearless  fighter  whom  Bolotov  had  obeyed  at  the 
barricades.     He  now  reminded  one  of  a  village  youth, 


'  What  Never  Happened  231 

a  mere  boy,  just  arrived  in  St.  Petersburg  from  the  dis- 
tant steppes. 

"Have  you  seen  him?"  Bolotov  asked  in  a  low  voice, 
as  he  seated  himself  at  the  table,  covered  with  a  torn 
cloth.    "I  haven't  seen  him  once." 

"Neither  have  I." 

"What  does  it  mean?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Perhaps  we  don't  know  how  to  watch?" 

Seriozha  shrugged  his  shoulders.  Bolotov  leaned  over 
to  him,  and  lowered  his  voice  to  a  whisper. 

"Listen.  Do  you  remember,  we  had  a  talk  one  night 
in  Moscow?  You  do  remember?  Yes?  Now  we  are 
killing  again,  or  at  least  we  want  to  kill.  Why,  I  live 
for  murder,  only  for  murder.  I  stand  and  stand,  and 
wait  and  wait,  to  see  whether  he'll  go  by,  whether  I'U 
see  him.  What  for?  We  think  of  it  when  we  get  up 
and  when  we  go  to  bed.  I  have  a  friend  in  the  tavern, 
driver  Strelov,  a  drunkard  and  a  tramp — he  beats  his 
wife.  But  perhaps  he  leads  a  finer  life  than  we  do. 
What  are  we  doing?  We  lie.  You  may  say,  a  revo- 
lutionist always  lies,  and  his  lying  is  right.  Of  course 
he  does  and  of  course  it's  right.  But  still  it's  lying. 
And  particularly,  have  you  noticed?  it's  difficult  to  tell 
a  lie  to  a  man  like  Strelov,  He  may  be  a  drunkard  and 
a  knave,  but  he  has  an  open  soul  and  will  believe  any 
story.  And  then  what?  We  are  keeping  watch.  But 
so  do  secret  service  spies.  We  say  it's  abominable  to 
spy;  we  say  spies  are  scoundrels.  And  we  ourselves? 
You'll  say  again,  spies  sell  themselves,  but  we  do  it  out 
of  revolutionary  conviction.  Of  course  out  of  convic- 
tion, but  still — still — we're  spying.  It's  not  important 
that  I  feel  troubled.     Something  else  is  important;  we 


232  What  Never  Happened 

are  fighting  for  liberty,  for  justice,  for  truth.  And  we 
lie,  lie  at  every  step.  When  I  joined  the  Party,  I  thought 
I  had  solved  everything.  "  Almost  everybody  thinks  so. 
Violence?  For  the  people  even  violence  is  permissible. 
Lies?  In  the  name  of  the  revolution  even  lies  are  per- 
missible. Deception?  In  the  name  of  the  Party  decep- 
tion is  permissible.  But  now  I  see  it's  not  so  simple. 
Does  the  end  really  justify  the  means  ?  Is  it  really  tiiie 
that  everything  is  permissible?  I  thought  so.  Every- 
body says  so.  Do  you  know  Rosenstern  ?  Even  he  says 
so.  But  it's  a  mistake.  Yes,  we  must  lie,  deceive,  kill, 
but  we  must  not  say  it's  permissible,  justified,  good;  we 
must  not  think  we  are  making  a  sacrifice  when  we  lie, 
that  we  can  redeem  our  souls  by  killing.  No,  we  must 
have  the  courage  to  say  this  is  bad,  cruel  and  terrible, 
but  it  is  inevitable.  Yes,  inevitable.  The  People's 
Freedom  Party  has  left  us  a  heritage,  Zheliabov,  Presvo- 
skaya,  Khibalchik,  Mikhailov,  heroes,  of  course,  heroes; 
but  why  did  they  hide  the  fact  that  terror  is  not  only 
a  sacrifice,  but  also  a  lie,  stained  with  blood  and  shame  ? 
I  once  had  a  talk  with  Ippolit.  He  wouldn't  even 
listen." 

Bolotov  stopped,  tremendously  wrought  up.  Seriozha 
lighted  a  cigarette  and  said : 

"With  Ippolit?  WeU,  even  if  Ippolit  thought  so,  he 
wouldn't  say  so." 

"He  wouldn't?  It's  all  right  when  one's  conscience 
is  clear;  all  right,  when  one  has  decided  that  terror  is 
necessary  and  therefore  lying  and  murder  are  permis- 
sible. But  if  I  feel  disgusted  when  I  tell  a  lie,  if  it 
hurts  my  soul?  You'll  ask,  why  am  I  working  for 
terror?  Oh,  my  God,  that's  the  point.  I  can't  desert 
terror.     I  can't  wash  my  hands  of  it.     I  have  no  right 


What  Never  Happened  233 

to  say:  'you  do  it.'  He  who  has  committed  murder  once 
cannot  be  saved.     He  must  give  his  life." 

Seriozha  was  lost  in  thought. 

"Why  must  he?" 

"Ah,  Seriozha,  you  ask.  But  tell  me,  what  do  you 
think?  Don't  you  think  one  must  go  the  limit?  And 
don't  you  hate  this  spying?  Didn't  you  say:  'It's  not 
given  to  us  to  know  ? '     Why  are  you  silent  ? ' ' 

Seriozha  hesitated,  as  if  afraid  that  Bolotov  might 
not  understand.     Then  he  began  softly  and  quietly. 

"I  will  say  it  again.  It's  not  given  to  us  to  know. 
Yes,  I  think  just  as  you  do.  We  lie,  we  kill,  we  spy. 
Yes,  it's  a  sin.  But  you  try  to  explain  why  we  kill, 
why  we  lie.  And  I  say,  it's  not  given  to  us  to  know. 
But  that  is  no  vindication.  What  would  be  the  vindica- 
tion ?  Of  course,  it  is  not  in  our  program.  But  I  '11  tell 
you — it  may  seem  strange  to  you,  so  don't  be  angry. 
This  is  what  I  think.  I  think,  you  won't  solve  it,  and 
nobody  will  solve  it.  How  can  any  one  decide  what  is 
allowed  and  what  is  not  allowed?  How  can  one  say, 
kill?  And  how  can  one  kill?  And  how  can  you  say: 
No,  one  must  not  fight,  one  must  not  spill  his  blood? 
Why  mustn't  one?  In  the  name  of  what?  And 
wouldn't  it  be  a  still  greater  sin?  I  think  this  way: 
one  who  has  faith  will  not  take  up  the  sword.  And  one 
who  does  take  up  the  sword  can  have  no  profound  faith. 
He  does  it  from  weakness,  not  from  strength." 

"Have  you  faith?"  Bolotov  interrupted. 

"I?    Why,  I  have  taken  up  the  sword." 

"Goodness,  what  has  faith  to  do  with  it?  Faith  in 
God,  you  mean?" 

"Yes,  faith  in  God." 

"In  the  Christian  God?" 


234  What  Never  Happened 

"Yes,  in  the  Christian  God." 

"In  Christ?" 

"Yes,  in  Christ." 

Bolotov  looked  at  Seriozha  in  surprise.  His  words 
about  Christ  and  God  seemed  so  obsolete  and  meaning- 
less, so  reminiscent  of  hypocritical  sermons,  that  he  was 
ready  to  believe  Seriozha  was  joking.  But  there  was  no 
smile  on  Seriozha 's  face.  Near  them  at  a  wet,  dirty 
table  was  a  drunken-driver,  his  head  propped  on  his 
hand,  singing  noisily.  The  place  smelled  of  beer  and 
vodka. 

"Well,  even  so,"  Bolotov  thought  to  himself,  "Christ 
does  not  justify  murder?  The  Testament  does  not  bless 
terror  ?     Then  why  are  you  silent  again  ? ' ' 

Seriozha  raised  his  eyes  unwillingly. 

"Christ  said:  Thou  shalt  not  kill.  But  people 
keep  on  killing.  Christ  said,  Love  thy  neighbour  as 
thyself.  Well,  is  there  any  love  in  the  world?  Christ 
said:  I  have  not  come  to  judge,  but  to  save.  Who  of 
us  has  been  saved?  You  may  not  listen  to  me,  but  I 
say:  It  is  not  given  to  us  to  know.  You  ask  whether 
I  have  faith.  Do  you  remember  this?  One  of  the  con- 
demned murderers  blasphemed  Him  and  said;  If  thou 
art  Christ,  save  thyself  and  us.  Another,  on  the  con- 
trary, reproached  Him  and  said:  Art  thou  not  afraid 
of  God,  if  thou  are  convicted,  as  we  are?  And  we  are 
justly  convicted,  we  get  our  deserts,  but  He  had  done 
nothing.  And  he  said  to  Jesus,  Eemember  me,  oh  God, 
when  thou  comest  into  thy  kingdom.  Do  you  under- 
stand?    No?" 

It  was  growing  dark.  The  lights  were  lit  in  the  cafe. 
Seriozha  was  silent,  lost  in  thought.  Bolotov  paid  the 
bill  and  went  slowly  to  the  stalls.     In  the  yard  a  turkey 


What  Never  Happened  235 

was  strutting  up  and  down,  its  tail  spread  out  proudly. 
A  stout  woman  was  doing  her  washing  in  a  trough.  The 
loafer  Padliekha,  was  currying  one  of  the  horses. 
'* Christ— Testament— Thou  shalt  not  kill,"  Bolotov 
thought,  as  he  climbed  up  on  his  driver's  seat  and 
wrapped  his  long  coat  about  him.  "What  a  religious 
fog!  But  still  Seriozha  is  right;  one  should  not,  and 
must,  yes,  must.  But  why  that  should  be  the  vindica- 
tion I  am  unable  to  see.  And  no  one  can  see  it."  He 
gathered  up  the  reins  and  drove  to  Fontanka  Street.  A 
harmonica  was  playing  somewhere.  The  white  Peters- 
burg night  was  falling. 


CHAPTER  X 

IN  the  begmning  of  April,  about  two  weeks  before 
the  opening  of  the  Imperial  Duma,  Ippolit  made 
an  appointment  to  meet  Bolotov  at  Imatra.  Bolo- 
tov  left  for  Viborg  at  night,  intending  to  return  the 
same  day.  At  the  Viborg  railroad  station  he  unexpect- 
edly met  Vanya  and  a  tall,  broad-shouldered  man  of 
about  thirty  in  the  third  class  buffet.  Bolotov  guessed 
him  to  be  Abram.  Vanya,  black-haired,  with  high  cheek- 
bones and  dressed  in  a  shabby  faded  coat,  smiled  with 
his  narrow,  slit-like  eyes  and  nodded.  When  the  train 
started  and  the  snow-covered  forests  emerged  in  the  dim 
morning  light,  he  cast  a  furtive  glance  at  the  passengers 
and  said  in  a  low  voice:  ''Where  there's  the  needle, 
there  is  also  the  thread.  To  Ippolit,  Audrey  Nikolaye- 
vich?" 

"Yes,  to  Ippolit.    Why?" 

"Nothing.  Business  is  bad.  His  Excellency  the 
Prosecutor  absolutely  refuses  to  show  himself.  He  hides 
in  his  palace  and  does  not  make  a  sound.  The  cat  knows 
whose  meat  it  has  eaten." 

"Wait.  He  won't  escape.  Ha!"  Abram  replied 
quietly  and  yawned. 

"The  other  day  Seriozha  saw  him,  thank  God.  Seri- 
ozha  was  driving  his  cab  without  a  passenger  along 
Liteiny  Street,  and  suddenly  he  saw  a  carriage  with  the 
master  himself  inside.  You  know,  Audrey  Nikolaye- 
vich,  Ippolit  would  give  us  the  devil." 

236 


What  Never  Happened  237 

"Why?" 

''Because  we  are  sitting  in  the  same  coach.  "We  are 
breaking  the  underground  rules  of  the  Party.  Oh,  this 
underground  business!  I  can't  get  used  to  the  tricks. 
Day  in,  day  out,  you  keep  lying.  And  never  a  bit  of 
rest.  The  other  day  a  man  asked  me :  '  Where  do  you 
come  from,  fellow  ? '  I  've  got  sick  of  it,  to  tell  the  truth. 
Everybody  bothers  one  with:  Who?  Where  from? 
What  for  ?  So  I  said :  *  From  Port  Arthur.  I  was  an 
adjutant  to  General  Stoessel.'  He  looked  at  me.  'To 
General  Stoessel?'  'What  did  you  open  your  jaws  for? 
Yes,  to  Stoessel.'  He  twisted  his  beard  and  said: 
'Well,  brother,  you're  a  daisy.'  'And  you're  positively 
a  fool,'  I  said. 

Vanya  laughed  and  lighted  a  cigarette. 

"So  he  is  oppressed  by  the  deception,  too,"  Bolotov 
thought,  looking  into  his  companion's  eyes  searchingly. 
He  wanted  to  ask  Vanya  what  he  thought  about  sp}"-- 
ing,  but  Abram  produced  a  newspaper  from  his  pocket : 
"Have  you  read  it,  comrades?  An  expropriation  on 
Podyacheskaya  Street." 

The  day  before  Bolotov  had  learned  at  The  Friends 
about  this  brilliant  coup.  When  Strelov,  unkempt, 
drunken,  beat  his  chest  with  his  fists,  and  told 
bow  they  had  stolen  a  "million  and  had  killed  five  hun- 
dred people,"  Bolotov  experienced  a  bitter  feeling — a 
feeling  of  jealousy,  anger,  and  indignation.  The  same 
feeling  possessed  him  now.  He  was  jealous  of  Volodya's 
success,  was  indignant  at  the  "villainous"  murder,  and 
was  angry  because  of  his  own  wrath.  He  read  the 
description  in  the  newspaper,  folded  the  paper,  and 
turned  to  the  window.  Vanya  touched  him  on  the  shoul- 
der. 


238  What  Never  Happened 

*  *  Audrey  Nikolayevich. ' ' 

"What  is  it?" 

' '  Well,  what  do  you  say  to  it,  Andrey  Nikolayevich  ? ' ' 

**What  should  I  say?     It's  highway  robbery," 

"Absolutely.  I  think  it  will  do  the  Party  tremendous 
harm." 

"Harm?"  Abram  asked  sulkily.  "What  do  you 
mean,  harm?  Will  the  money  be  used  for  sweetmeats? 
A  queer  way  of  talking!  If  we  are  going  to  be  shy 
about  it,  what  will  happen?  Ha!  Robbery!  And 
aren't  we  being  robbed  and  exploited?  Aren't  mothers 
weeping  and  daughters  walking  the  streets?  And  how 
about  pogroms?  Have  you  forgotten  the  pogroms? 
"Well,  I  have  not.  Why  do  you  say  robbery?  Are  we 
to  be  the  judges?  Oughtn't  we  be  ashamed  to  sit  in 
judgment?  And  what  can  be  done  without  money? 
Tell  me— what?" 

Bolotov  did  not  answer.  Vanya  flushed  up,  but  also 
kept  silence. 

"And  do  you  remember,  Vanya,  you  once  said:  *A 
great  sin  was  committed'?" 

"You  mean  the  Cossacks?" 

"Yes,  the  Cossacks." 

"Absolutely,  a  sin.  Ah,  Andrey  Nikolayevich,  how 
many  sins  do  we  take  upon  our  souls?  They're  not  to 
be  counted,  not  to  be  forgiven."  He  smiled  a  weak, 
forced  smile,  unfamiliar  to  Bolotov.  "But  what's  to  be 
done?  It's  not  for  ourselves.  It's  for  the  Party,  for 
land  and  freedom.     We  ourselves  need  nothing." 

* '  There,  Vanya  says  the  same  thing, ' '  Bolotov  thought. 
"Then  am  I  mistaken?  Are  my  doubts  merely  the 
leisurely  thoughts  of  the  'Intelligentzia'?  Is  every- 
thing really  permissible  in  the  name  of  the  people,  and 


What  Never  Happened  239 

does  the  truth  lie  with  Ippolit,  Rosenstern  and  Vanya? 
Surely  the  truth  is  not  in  Seriozha's  words?  Not  in  the 
ten  commandments?" 

The  day  dawned  in  the  east.  The  sun  rose,  a  flaming 
red  ball,  and  began  to  gild  the  tops  of  the  trees  and 
cast  a  rosy  glow  over  the  snow.  Bolotov  opened  the  win- 
dow. A  damp  invigourating  breeze  blew  in  from  the 
woods.  The  locomotive  gave  a  shrill  whistle.  Houses 
built  in  the  Finnish  style  passed  by,  then  the  platform 
and  station. 

"Imatra,"  the  conductor  shouted. 

Sinking  in  the  deep  snow-drifts,  Vanya,  Bolotov  and 
Abram  made  their  way  along  a  narrow  path  to  the  water- 
fall. From  a  distance  they  heard  the  dull,  heavy  roar, 
like  the  pounding  of  breakers.  Bolotov,  slipping  over 
the  wet  stones  and  holding  on  to  the  wind-lashed  fir- 
trees,  descended  carefully  to  the  river.  Clinging  to  the 
face  of  the  cliff,  he  looked  down  at  the  rushing  water, 
and  shuddered.  The  muddy,  yellow  stream  flowed  so 
rapidly,  that  it  looked  as  smooth  as  metal.  Bolotov, 
sprayed  by  the  icy  foam,  forgot  about  spying,  stables, 
Strelov  and  the  hack-drivers'  yard,  and  listened  to  the 
deafening  roar,  to  its  wordless,  ominous  message.  For 
a  moment  he  lost  consciousness.  There  was  no  Imatra, 
no  fir-trees,  no  spray,  no  moss-covered  stones,  no  wor- 
ries, misfortunes,  annoyance,  no  Bolotov,  no  squad,  no 
Abram,  no  Ippolit.  There  was  only  life,  powerful,  eter- 
nal, indivisible  and  blessed. 

''We  kill.  What  for?"  He  thought  in  agony,  then 
suddenly  recalled  a  poem  he  had  learned  in  school : 

"And  with  a  great  and  secret  sorrow 
I  thought:     How  pitiful  is  man! 
What  is  he  after  ?    See  how  clear  the  sky  is, 


240  What  Never  Happened 

And  under  it  there's  room  for  all. 
But  ever  vainly  'gainst  his  fellows 
He  battles  and  contends.     What  for?" 

At  the  Little  Imatra,  where  the  swirling  stream  be- 
comes smoother  and  quieter,  Bolotov  saw  Ippolit,  Seri- 
ozha,  and  a  girl  he  did  not  know  in  a  sheepskin  cap. 
She  sat  at  the  edge  of  the  bank,  her  back  turned  to  the 
jDath,  and  did  not  hear  his  approach.  When  Abram 
called,  she  turned  around  reluctantly.  Bolotov  was  sur- 
prised. He  did  not  know  that  there  was  a  woman  in 
the  squad,  and  felt  annoyed  that  Ippolit  had  concealed 
something  from  him. 

After  the  first  words  of  greeting  all  became  silent, 
yanya  raised  his  keen,  clever  eyes. 

''Well?  Let's  get  down  to  business,  Ippolit  Alekseye- 
vich." 

"Yes,  to  business,"  Ippolit  said  thoughtfully.  "We 
must  decide  an  important  question.  Anna,  are  you  lis- 
tening? The  committee  has  determined  that  the  Prose- 
cutor must  be  assassinated  not  later  than  the  opening 
of  the  Imperial  Duma.  Whether  the  committee  is  right 
or  wrong,  is  not  for  us  to  judge.  I  suppose  we  must 
abide  by  its  decision.  So  we  have  only  two  weeks  to  do 
it  in.  Our  work  has  brought  no  results.  I  intended  to 
make  the  attempt  on  the  street,  but  it's  impossible.  Who 
can  guarantee  that  there  will  be  no  slip?  Besides  we 
must  take  into  consideration  the  last  expropriation. 
The  police  is  on  the  guard,  and  it's  more  difficult  to 
work  now.  So  I  say,  can't  we  change  our  plans  and 
carry  out  the  committee 's  order  by  killing  the  prosecutor 
at  once?" 

The  more  Ippolit  spoke,  the  harsher  and  abrupter  his 
voice  grew.    His  pale  face  with  its  fine  features  and 


What  Never  Happened  241 

deep-set  eyes  showed  signs  of  his  not  having  slept  all 
night  and  his  words,  so  exact  and  emphatic,  showed  they 
were  the  result  of  careful  thinking.  Bolotov  listened, 
and  felt  he  was  beginning  to  understand  Ippolit — his  ex- 
traordinary "secrecy,"  his  hatred  of  talk,  his  reserve 
and  deliberation  and  cold  aloofness.  He  now  knew  that 
he  had  neither  love,  nor  joy,  nor  doubts.  His  whole 
existence  lay  in  the  "work,"  in  terror.  He  had  fallen 
in  love,  yes,  yes,  fallen  in  love  with  terror.  Bolotov 
thought  these  things  over,  and  was  ashamed  of  himself 
for  having  been  annoyed  by  Ippolit. 

Seriozha  broke  the  silence.  "I  think  there  is  a  pos- 
sibility." 

"What?" 

"The  prosecutor  goes  to  Tzarskoye  Selo  every  Friday. 
I  think  he  can  be  killed  at  the  station." 

"At  the  station?"  Ippolit  asked. 

"Yes,  at  the  Tzarskovelsky  Station." 

"And  the  secret  service?" 

"What  about  it?     The  secret  service  is  everywhere." 

"Listen,  Seriozha.  We  have  stationed  guards  who 
have  worked  unceasingly  for  three  months,  and  what  has 
been  our  object  if  not  to  make  sure  of  winning?  To 
prevent  what  risk?  Certainly  not  the  loss  of  our  lives. 
But  I  am  convinced  that  even  if  it  should  be  possible  to 
enter  the  station,  the  secret  service  will  prevent  us  from 
throwing  the  bomb.  And  then,  of  course,  the  thing  will 
be  lost.  And  it  will  be  our  own  fault.  You  understand 
— our  own  fault." 

"When  one  is  afraid,  he'd  better  stay  at  home,"  said 
Abram  angrily. 

Somewhere  in  the  woods,  a  twig  snapped.  A  squirrel 
ran  up  the  trunk  of  a  tree,  and  almost  directly  above 


242  What  Never  Happened 

them,  in  the  pale  blue,  cloudless  sky,  the  sun  was  shining 
with  blinding  brightness.  And  though  Seriozha's  and 
Ippolit's  words  dealt  with  murder  and  death,  Bolotov 
felt  no  fear.  '  *  He  battles  all  alone.  What  for  ? ' '  passed 
through  his  mind  again. 

"That's  right.  If  you're  afraid  of  wolves,  don't  go 
to  the  woods,"  Vanya  said  in  confirmation  of  Abram. 
"We  must  finish,  Ippolit  Alekseyevich. " 

Ippolit,  frail  and  delicate,  with  his  white  face  and 
golden  hair,  looked  attentively  at  Seriozha,  as  if  he  hoped 
to  guess  whether  or  not  the  attempt  would  succeed. 

"Yes,  of  course,  of  course,"  he  said  dully,  "but 
how?" 

"Leave  it  to  me,  Ippolit,"  Seriozha  said  in  a  low 
voice. 

"Will  you  go?" 

"Yes,  I." 

"Alone?" 

"Yes,  I'll  go  alone." 

"No.     I  can't  permit  it." 

"Ah,  Ippolit  Alekseyevich,"  Vanya  began  indig- 
nantly, "we  have  spoons  but  nothing  to  eat.  We'll  be 
going  on  all  our  lives  this  way,  waiting  for  good  weather 
at  sea.  I  am  ready  to  go  to  the  station.  To  the  sta- 
tion? Even  to  the  devil,  to  hell!  If  there  is  no  other 
way,  then  we  must  break  our  heads.  That's  the  way  I 
feel  about  it." 

Abram  listened  approvingly,  and  when  Vanya  had 
finished  said  sulkily: 

"The  committee  makes  decisions.  Well,  that's  their 
business.  Ha!  And  I  say  the  same  as  Vanya.  Load 
me  into  a  cannon  and  shoot!  I'll  put  on  my  coat  and 
will  be  ready.     But  we  are  not  at  a  Bundist  meeting  to 


"VYliat  Never  Happened  243 

keep  on  talking  for  ever.  Comrade  Ippolit,  what's  go- 
ing to  be  done?  We  won't  be  in  time  for  the  Duma, 
and  after  the  Duma  meets,  the  committee  will  disband 
us.  So  we  must  go,  willingly  or  not,  we  must  go.  If 
Seriozha  won 't,  I  '11  go.  And  we  must  get  through  with 
it." 

After  long  hesitation,  Ippolit  gave  his  consent.  It 
was  decided  that  Seriozha  go  to  the  Tzarskovelsky  rail- 
road station.  Bolotov  heard  the  decision,  but  did  not 
believe  it.  He  had  become  accustomed  to  the  thought 
that  he  himself  would  kill  the  prosecutor  and  was  so 
prepared  to  die,  so  calm  about  it,  that  his  comrade's 
words  made  no  impression  upon  him.  It  was  not  until 
later,  in  the  evening,  when  he  was  going  back  to  the 
station,  that  he  realized  it  was  not  he  who  was  destined 
to  perish  in  a  week,  but  this  tall,  fair-haired  youth,  with 
the  imperturbable  face,  who  was  walking  at  his  side. 
The  sun  was  setting  beyond  the  woods,  Imatra  was 
roaring,  and  the  snow  was  beginning  to  melt.  Bolotov 
stole  a  glance  at  Seriozha.  "He  fought  at  my  side 
at  the  barricades  and  now  is  to  die.  Remember  me, 
God,  when  Thou  comest  into  Thy  Kingdom."  Driven 
by  a  fiery  impulse,  he  stopped  suddenly  and  embraced 
Seriozha  as  if  he  were  his  brother  and  kissed  him  on  his 
lips. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  rumours  about  Ippolit  had  some  foundation 
in  fact.  He  really  was  the  son  of  a  senator 
and  a  student  in  a  military  academy,  and  he 
had  donated  everything  his  father  had  left  him  to  the 
cause  of  terrorism.  He  was  tall  and  slender,  with  deli- 
cately formed  hands,  was  always  well  dressed,  and  had 
all  the  distinguished  marks  and  refined  manner  of  a 
well-educated  man.  These  qualities  made  Arseny 
Ivanovich  indignant.  Besides  all  that,  he  spoke  French 
fluently.  He  had  joined  the  Party  when  still  a  boy  just 
out  of  school,  and  had  insisted  upon  being  attached  to 
the  terrorist  organization.  At  the  time  a  plan  had  been 
under  way  to  assassinate  the  governor-general  at  St. 
Petersburg,  and  since  terrorists  were  few,  he  was  ac- 
cepted without  difficulty,  even  without  the  usual  rigid 
preliminary  investigation.  In  the  two  years  of  his 
**work,"  almost  all  the  terrorists  had  been  hanged,  and 
the  effect  of  their  execution  upon  him  was  a  certain 
aloofness,  a  certain  restrained  obduracy.  The  memory 
of  his  lost  comrades  drove  him  on  to  "work"  with 
double  zeal,  and  to  place  no  reliance  on  light  promises 
and  vain  words.  Though  he  knew  Bolotov  to  be  a  mem- 
ber of  the  committee,  he  met  him  with  the  same  hidden 
suspicion  with  which  he  met  Seriozha  and  Vanya.  Sev- 
eral montlis  passed  before  he  came  to  place  full  con- 
fidence in  him. 

Ippolit  was  never  troubled  by  doubts  such  as  haunted 

244 


What  Never  Happened  245 

Bolotov.  "When  he  joined  the  Party,  he  resolved  irre- 
vocably that  it  was  his  duty  to  kill  and  to  die,  and  never 
afterwards  touched  upon  this  troubling  problem.  The 
death  of  his  comrades,  his  preoccupation  with  bombs  and 
gallows  and  bloodshed  made  him  insensible  to  the  tor- 
tures Bolotov  suffered  over  the  rights  and  wrongs  of 
the  matter.  The  fighting  work  forged  him  into  an 
"iron"  terrorist,  inspiration  gave  jilaee  to  calmness, 
fiery  daring  to  courage,  variability  of  mood  to  self-con- 
trol, inefficiency  to  rigid  efficiency,  love  of  argument  to 
indifference  to  the  opinion  of  others.  But  he  retained 
the  blind  faith  in  the  Party  that  he  had  had  for  two 
long  years.  He  believed  the  Party  program  to  be  sane 
and  right,  and  all  the  members  to  be  self-sacrificing, 
honest  and  courageous.  He  felt  a  reverent  love  of  the 
Party,  without  discriminating  between  Doctor  Berg, 
Arseny  Ivanovich,  Rosenstern,  and  Aliosha  Gruzdiev. 
In  all  of  them,  Rosenstern,  Arseny  Ivanovich,  Doctor 
Berg,  and  Vera  Andreyevna  he  saw  the  personification 
of  a  Party's  will,  of  its  brains  and  its  soul.  But  lately 
his  devotion  had  begun  to  waver.  He  could  not  take  in 
the  committee's  "directions"  to  curb  terror.  These 
strange  directions  seemed  like  an  infringement  upon 
the  inalienable  rights  of  the  fighting  organization,  upon 
the  sanity  and  dignity  of  the  revolution.  But  with  an 
aching  heart,  recognizing  his  duty  to  give  unquestion- 
ing obedience  to  the  Party,  he  submitted  even  to  this. 
The  committee  knew  of  his  dissatisfaction  with  their 
directions,  and  valued  his  soldierly  obedience  highly. 

Neither  Arseny  Ivanovich,  nor  Doctor  Berg,  nor  Vera 
Andreyevna  ever  questioned  what  sort  of  life  Ippolit 
was  leading.  They  had  become  so  accustomed  to  his 
modesty,  patience,  obedience,  firmness  and  readiness  to 


246  What  Never  Happened 

die,  that  it  never  occurred  to  them  to  give  a  thought  to 
the  unfortunate  circumstances  under  which  this  frail, 
girlish,  shy,  unpretentious  man  was  "working."  They 
were  oblivious  of  the  fact  that  every  month  some  one  of 
his  comrades  and  friends  was  dying,  and  that  in  his  eyes 
every  new  member  was  a  consecrated  victim,  whose 
death  he  was  to  outlive.  They  were  also  oblivious  of 
the  fact  that  day  in,  day  out,  every  minute,  his  thoughts 
were  poisoned  by  visions  of  murder  and  bloodshed,  and 
that  to  him  even  a  successful  assassination  was  a  source 
of  boundless  agony.  His  life  of  martyrdom  seemed  no 
more  oppressive  than  their  own.  They  sincerely  be- 
lieved that  they  as  the  masters  had  a  perfect  right  to 
hand  him  advice  and  give  him  instructions,  direct  his 
life,  reproach  him  or  approve  of  him.  And  he  recog- 
nized their  supreme  right,  and  no  one  perceived  the 
cruelty  of  the  relationship. 

Ippolit  left  Imatra  tired  and  excited.  For  the  first 
time  he  had  broken  his  far-sighted  rule  of  going  slowly 
and  avoiding  unnecessary  risks.  Instinct,  born  of  the 
experience  gathered  in  his  extensive  "work,"  not  rea- 
son, gave  him  a  premonition  of  something  that  none  of 
the  comrades  who  had  argued  with  him,  neither  Seriozha 
nor  Bolotov,  could  foresee.  He  had  a  premonition  that 
the  prosecutor  would  not  be  killed,  and  the  attempt 
would  result  in  failure.  However,  he  gave  his  permis- 
sion, not  because  Abram  and  Vanya  kept  urging  him  so 
persistently,  but  only  because,  according  to  Rosenstern, 
all  Russia,  the  whole  Party,  the  whole  nation  desired 
the  assassination,  and  desired  it  before  the  convening 
of  the  Imperial  Duma.  But  in  the  very  act  of  giving 
his  consent  to  the  attempt,  he  felt  a  deep-seated  fear 
that  the  thing  was  unwise.    It  was  as  if  he  were  killing, 


VThsLt  Never  Happened  247 

and  uselessly  killing,  Seriozha  with  his  own  hands,  a 
man  whom  he  considered  the  most  daring  and  cour- 
ageous of  all  his  comrades.  Ippolit's  usual  composure 
deserted  him.  In  the  train  on  the  way  from  Imatra  to 
St.  Petersburg,  he  resolved — something  he  had  never 
done  before — to  find  the  committee  and  try  to  per- 
suade Rosenstern  that  the  delay  was  inevitable  and  the 
prosecutor  could  not  be  assassinated  at  that  particular 
time.  From  the  Finland  Station  he  took  a  hack  and 
went  to  the  committee  headquarters  without  first  going 
to  his  hotel,  the  Belvedere. 

The  committee  was  meeting  at  Valabuyev's,  in  his  soli- 
tary house  on  the  Kamennoostrov  Prospect.  As  he  was 
ascending  the  inig-covered  marble  stairs,  he  suddenly 
paused  in  thought.  His  unexpected  call  seemed  like  an 
act  of  insolence.  The  committee  had  ordered  the  assas- 
sination of  the  chief  military  prosecutor.  Ippolit's  ex- 
clusive business  was  to  carry  out  the  order  without  dis- 
cussion, and  not  to  offer  proofs  by  way  of  dissuasion  or 
entreaty.  But  then  recalling  that  Seriozha  would  per- 
ish, he  opened  the  oaken  door  without  further  hesitation. 

In  the  room  with  the  costly  paintings  on  the  walls 
and  the  Venus  of  Milo  in  one  corner,  where  Volodya 
had  quarrelled  with  Doctor  Berg,  sat  Arseny  Ivanovich 
and  Rosenstern  in  leather  armchairs.  Valabuyev  was 
not  present.  Arseny  Ivanovich  was  talking  in  his  dry, 
raucous  bass  about  the  elections  to  the  Duma. 

"Is  it  not  a  mistake,  benefactor,  that  the  Party  has 
decided  upon  a  boycott?  A  boycott  may  be  all  right, 
but  see  who  is  being  elected.  Labourites  and  Cadets. 
Didn't  I  warn  them  of  it  at  the  convention?  But  I 
wasn't  listened  to.    Ah,  Ippolit,  what's  new?    Well?" 

Restraining  his  excitement,  Ippolit  gave  a  brief  ac- 


248  What  Never  Happened 

count  of  the  consultation  at  Imatra.  Rosenstern,  gnaw- 
ing his  beard,  listened  intently  and  gloomily.  Arseny 
Ivanovich  shook  his  grey  head. 

"That's  bad,  benefactor,  bad.  Such  a  business! 
And  what  a  misfortune !  That's  just  the  way.  We  live 
richly,  all  aplenty ;  but  whatever  we  need,  we  must  turn 
to  others  for.  Don't  feel  offended,  benefactor,  but  why 
has  the  spying  brought  no  results?" 

Ippolit  was  embarrassed.  His  pale  cheeks  turned  still 
paler.  He  discerned  a  reproach  in  the  words  of  Arseny 
Ivanovich,  and  thought  the  reproach  was  deserved.  He 
had  accepted  the  responsibility  for  the  squad,  and  at  a 
decisive  moment,  when  the  whole  of  Russia  was  placing 
its  hope  in  it,  the  squad,  through  his  lips,  was  voicing 
a  confession  of  its  unpardonable  weakness.  In  Rosen- 
stern's  sad  eyes,  sparkling  like  a  boy's,  he  read  the  same 
painful,  though  silent  reproach. 

"I  don't  know,  Arseny  Ivanovich,  I  don't  know.  I 
can't  explain.  Can't  we  postpone  it  for  a  month? 
Perhaps  we'll  manage.     At  least  I  have  not  lost  hope." 

"No,  no,  no!"  Arseny  Ivanovich  waved  his  hands. 
"Impossible,  unthinkable,  benefactor,  no." 

"But  the  attempt  at  the  railway  station  will  end  in 
failure. ' ' 

"Why  failure?    Why,  benefactor?     Tell  me,  why?" 

"The  secret  service,  Arseny  Ivanovich,"  Ippolit  be- 
gan hesitatingly,  feeling  that  Arseny  Ivanovich  was  an- 
swering as  had  Seriozha  and  Vanya,  and  he  could  not 
contradict  him. 

"Well,  what  about  the  secret  service?  The  secret 
service  is  everywhere,  my  benefactor.  You  understand 
me,  benefactor?"     Arseny  Ivanovich  got  up  from  his 


What  Never  Happened  249 

chair  and  took  Ippolit's  arm.  "It's  a  po-lit-i-cal 
necessity.  Think  of  it!  We  must  have  it  now,  today. 
When  the  Duma  opens,  good-bye.  Yes.  And  if  there  is 
the  least  hope,  we  must  take  the  risk.  You  know  me. 
I  am  always  on  the  side  of  the  greatest  caution.  One 
who  takes  care  of  himself  is  taken  care  of  by  God.  But 
in  this  aifair  even  I  tell  you  to  dare  it!  However — " 
He  interrupted  himself  and  without  releasing  Ippolit's 
arm  shook  his  head  again.     "Yes — business — " 

"What  do  you  mean  by  'however'?"  Rosenstem  asked 
drily.  "Listen,  Ippolit,  you  must  understand  that  we 
can  neither  allow  nor  forbid  assassination.  It's  not  in 
our  power.  But  after  the  opening  of  the  Imperial 
Duma,  terror  will  be  politically  harmful,  yes,  harmful. 
That  is  not  my  opinion  alone.  It  is  the  view  of  the 
convention,  of  the  Party,  of  all  Russia.  And  you  turn 
to  the  committee.  What  can  I  tell  you?  The  prose- 
cutor must  be  killed.  Is  it  possible?  That  is  not  for 
me  to  decide — but  for  you." 

"I  say  it's  impossible,"  Ippolit  said  in  a  voice  barely 
audible. 

"Well,  that  is  the  question.  It  may  be  impossible 
with  one  metal  worker,  but  possible  with  two.  If  one 
is  arrested,  the  other  can  throw  the  bomb.  Of  course, 
it 's  a  mere  suggestion.  That  is  the  way  I  think  about  it. 
But,  of  course,  I  cannot  decide." 

Ippolit  covered  his  face  with  his  hands.  He  felt  his 
words  were  vain,  because  a  successful  assassination  was 
essential  at  any  price,  essential  to  Arseny  Ivanovich,  to 
Rosenstern,  to  the  committee  and  to  the  Party.  The  at- 
tempt would  have  to  be  made.  Such  was  the  will  of 
Seriozha,  of  Vanya,  of  Bolotov,  of  the  committee,  and 


250  What  Never  HajDpened 

of  all  the  numberless  comrades.  And  he,  Ippolit,  had 
no  right  to  rim  counter  to  their  will.  Once  more  he 
looked  at  Arseny  Ivanovich  with  obedient  eyes. 

"Arseny  Ivanovich." 

"What,  my  benefactor?" 

*'So  it  can't  be  postponed?" 

"No,  no,  no!     God  forbid!" 

Valabuyev,  plump,  short-haired  and  red-necked, 
dressed  in  a  fashionable  frock-coat,  entered,  bowed  re- 
spectfully and  announced  that  Doctor  Berg  and  Vera 
Andreyevna  had  come.  Ippolit  took  a  hasty  leave. 
Arseny  Ivanovich  smiled  and  said,  turning  to  Rosen- 
stern  : 

"It's  all  right.  It  will  work  out.  Still,  he's  a  fine 
fellow !    A  horse  has  four  feet,  and  yet  it  stumbles. ' ' 


CHAPTER  XII 

SERIOZHA  was  not  familiar  with  that  apprehen- 
siveness  for  the  cause  which  possessed  Arseny 
Ivanovich,  Doctor  Berg,  Vera  Andreyevna,  Volo- 
dya,  Arkady  Rosenstern  and  all  the  comrades  who  were 
trying  to  direct  the  revolution.  He  had  not  joined  the 
Party  because  of  his  faith  in  its  program,  as  accepted 
by  the  convention,  nor  because  he  had  hoped  to  lead  the 
people.  A  settled,  quiet  life,  its  cruelty,  hypocrisy  and 
deception,  had  sickened  him  and  filled  him  with  indig- 
nation. It  seemed  to  him  that  only  in  the  Socialist 
Party,  in  self-sacrificing,  unselfish  struggle,  was  hidden 
the  eternal  truth,  the  immutable  commandments  of 
Christ.  Upon  himself  he  looked  as  upon  a  soldier,  one 
of  those  nameless  soldiers  who  are  not  supposed  to  doubt 
or  question,  but  to  die  ungrudgingly.  He  had  a  firm 
faith  in  the  revolution,  a  faith  that  God  would  not  desert 
it,  and  he  prayerfully  consecrated  himself  to  the  most 
terrible  work,  to  violence  sanctioned  by  men. 

In  the  middle  of  April  he  sold  his  horse  and  cab  for 
half  price,  without  bargaining,  discarded  his  long  coat, 
and  put  on  a  suit  of  German  cut.  In  a  soft  hat  and 
well-made  coat,  combed  and  washed,  with  curled  mous- 
tache, the  village  lad  was  totally  unrecognizable.  He 
went  to  Moscow,  changed  his  driver 's  passport,  and  from 
a  hack-driver  turned  into  a  landowner  and  nobleman. 
Bolotov  could  not  believe  his  eyes  when  he  met  him. 

On  Saturday,  a  few  days  before  the  opening  of  the 

251 


252  What  Never  Happened 

Imperial  Duma,  the  chief  military  prosecutor  was  ex- 
pected to  take  his  customary  morning  trip.  Friday 
evening  Seriozha  met  Ippolit.  Until  then  he  had  stub- 
bornly believed  that  the  prosecutor  would  surely  be 
killed.  But  on  remaining  by  himself  at  the  corner  of 
Karavanaj'a  Street  late  at  night,  he  suddenly  felt 
troubled.  He  wanted  to  call  Ippolit  back,  shake  his 
hand  again,  and  hear  his  excited  voice — hear  that  Russia 
was  blessing  terror.  But  Ippolit  was  lost  in  the  crowd. 
Seriozha  trembled  and  started  to  walk  aimlessly  along 
the  Nevsky.  He  came  upon  the  quay  of  the  Neva.  He 
bent  his  fair  head  and  looked  down  into  the  leaden 
waters.  The  river  flowed  on  with  a  roar,  and  a  boat 
was  puffing  at  the  pier.  Far  away  in  the  east  beyond  the 
Okhta,  the  night  was  paling  and  foreshadowing  the 
April  morning.     Seriozha  moved  his  chilled  shoulders. 

''Driver!" 

"Here,  sir,  get  in!" 

*'To  the  Islands." 

"To  Krestovsky?" 

*'Yes,  to  Krestovsky/'  Seriozha  said,  without  think- 
ing, and  was  surprised. 

'  *  Why  ?    Why  to  the  Krestovsky  ? ' ' 

There  was  a  smell  of  wet  grass  and  a  salt  tang  in  the 
air.  Many  coloured  lights,  green,  red,  yellow,  shone 
coldly  through  the  naked  branches  in  the  pale  dawn. 
When  he  reached  the  lights,  the  driver  stopped.  Seri- 
ozha entered  a  large,  brilliantly-lighted,  crowded  hall. 
The  shrill  notes  of  the  orchestra  mingled  with  the  buzz 
of  conversation  and  shouts  and  laughter  stupefied  him 
for  a  moment.  On  the  stage  an  elderly  woman  in  a 
pink  skirt,  with  bare  arms  and  neck,  was  flinging  about 
her  bare  legs,  while  singing  a  popular  song  in  a  high 


What  Never  Happened  253 

soprano.  Well-fed  officials  and  merchants,  officers  with 
jingling  spurs,  were  laughing  and  applauding  with  all 
their  might.  When  Seriozha  saw  the  half -naked  woman 
with  her  painted  face,  those  cringing  waiters,  that  care- 
free intoxicated  crowd,  he  began  to  feel  his  ov\ti  loneli- 
ness still  more  intensely.  He  wanted  to  leave,  but  re- 
membered the  unattractive  hotel  room,  the  rude  bed 
with  its  cheap  coverings,  and  the  long  sleepless  hours 
ahead  of  him.  He  frowned  and  seated  himself  at  the 
table  near  the  door. 

He  felt  an  inexplicable  but  steadily  increasing  sen- 
sation of  painful  apprehension,  and  could  not  under- 
stand its  cause.    Ippolit? 

"But  even  if  Ippolit  is  right,  and  all  ends  in  failure, 
I  am  doing  my  duty.  My  conscience  is  clear.  To  die? 
Am  I  afraid  of  death  ?  Ami?"  He  asked  himself  and 
answered  with  joyous  exaltation,  "No,  I  am  not  afraid. 
It's  not  that.  Then  why  am  I  doubting ? "  He  glanced 
wearily  at  the  stage.  Behind  the  footlights  a  man  with 
long  moustaches,  in  an  embroidered  blouse,  was  now 
dancing  a  trepak.  He  waved  his  arms  about,  beat  his 
feet  on  the  boards,  and  circled  around.  The  place  shook 
with  applause.  A  hoarse,  drunken,  stammering  voice 
bawled  "Bravo!"  unceasingly. 

"Yes,  I  am  going  to  kill,"  Seriozha  almost  thought 
aloud.  "Yes,  I  am  going  to  kill."  And  it  came  to  him 
with  irresistible  clearness,  with  a  vision  of  inexorable 
fate,  that  he  had  to  kill,  that  he  had  no  will  of  his  own 
in  the  matter,  that  he  had  no  power  to  decide,  but  that 
some  one  had  decided  for  him.  It  was  the  same  op- 
pressive feeling  that  he,  Vanya  and  Bolotov  had  first  ex- 
perienced in  Sliozkin's  house.  And  now,  sitting  in  this 
Petersburg  restaurant,  in  the  midst  of  the  laughter  of 


254  What  Never  Happened 

women  and  uproarious  gaiety,  this  feeling  seized  him 
again.  "It  must  be  so,  it  must  be  so,"  he  repeated  in 
anguish,  looking  at  the  stage  with  unseeing  eyes.  "Oh 
God,  must  it  really  be  so?  Why  I,  I  don't  want  to 
kill." 

lie  sat  at  the  table,  his  head  bowed,  stirring  his  tea 
with  a  silver  spoon.  From  a  distance  he  must  have 
given  the  impression  of  gazing  intently  at  the  stage. 
He  recalled  Sliozkin,  the  ice-covered  barricades,  the  of- 
ficer of  the  dragoons  who  had  been  shot  and  Vanya's 
mocking  smile.  "The  mare  has  teeth,  but  is  simple." 
He  recalled  Bolotov,  his  conscientious  doubts,  and  his 
own  indefinite  answer:  "It's  not  given  to  us  to  know. 
God,  teach  me  how.  I  must  kill  tomorrow.  But  must 
I  really,  am  I  really  obliged  to,  or  do  I  want  to,  per- 
haps?" 

He  closed  his  eyes  wearily,  and  suddenly  to  the  ac- 
companiment of  music  and  noisy  laughter,  he  had  a  clear 
vision  of  what  would  take  place  on  the  morrow.  He 
saw  an  old,  wrinkled,  dead  face,  streams  of  blood  run- 
ning down  the  shaven  cheeks,  a  bleeding  corpse,  and  him- 
self standing  over  the  mutilated  body.  He  recalled  the 
text  of  the  New  Testament :  "Now  is  my  soul  troubled ; 
and  what  shall  I  say  ?  Father,  save  me  from  this  hour ; 
but  for  this  cause  came  I  unto  this  hour. ' ' 

"But  this  is  blasphemy,"  he  caught  himself  up. 
"Did  I  not  commit  murder  at  the  barricades?  Yes,  I 
did  and  I  will  tomorrow  again."  He  could  think  no 
more.  He  had  no  strength,  he  felt  he  would  not  dare 
to  kill,  murder  was  an  unpardonable  sin  and  would  de- 
stroy his  immortal  soul.  Always  courageous  and  firm, 
strongly  confident  of  the  righteousness  of  his  life,  he  now 
felt  he  was  a  little  child  and  really  "it  was  not  given 


What  Never  Happened  255 

us  to  know"  and  death  was  no  redemption.  "Verily, 
verily,  I  say  unto  you,"  he  whispered  the  words  of  God, 
''except  a  com  of  wheat  fall  into  the  ground  and  die, 
it  abideth  alone;  but  if  it  die,  it  bringeth  forth  much 
fruit.  He  that  loveth  his  life  shall  lose  it;  and  he  that 
hateth  his  life  in  this  world  shall  keep  it  unto  life 
eternal. ' ' 

"Are  you  lonesome,  young  man?" 

Before  him  stood  a  painted  woman  in  a  low-cut  blue 
dress,  her  hands  on  her  hips.  She  looked  straight  into 
his  eyes  with  an  inviting,  shameless,  half-tender,  half 
contemptuous  smile.  Seriozha  frowned  and  hastily  left 
the  restaurant. 

The  following  day,  Saturday,  he  awoke  before  seven, 
untroubled  by  the  doubts  of  the  day  before.  In  the 
morning  sunlight  murder  did  not  seem  to  be  a  deadly 
sin,  and  God  would  hear  him.  Not  to  murder  seemed 
like  a  greater  sin.  It  would  be  wrong  to  pass  by 
silently  and  acquiesce  in  deception  that  had  been  laid 
bare.  "Without  excitement,  quite  self-assured  and  calm, 
as  calm  as  when  he  had  gone  to  the  army  barracks,  he 
went  to  the  Aleksandrovsky  Park  and  found  Ippolit. 
Ippolit  gave  him  a  bomb  and  said,  glancing  at  him 
furtively : 

"You  did  not  sleep  last  night,  Seriozha?" 

Seriozha  smiled. 

"Oh,  I  slept  weU." 

"I  couldn't  sleep.    You  know  what,  Seriozha?" 

"What?" 

"Perhaps  we  ought  to  refuse." 

"Refuse?" 

"Yes,  postpone  the  attempt." 

"What  for?" 


256  What  Never  Happened 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  not  accustomed  to  working  this 
way. ' ' 

Seriozha  became  lost  in  thought  for  a  moment. 

*'And  the  committee?" 

"Oh,  what's  the  committee?"  Ippolit  burst  out  un- 
expectedly. "It  isn't  the  committee  that  is  responsible, 
but  I.     You  hear?     I  am  afraid." 

"What  are  you  afraid  of?" 

* '  I  fear  for  you,  Seriozha — and  for  the  whole  squad, ' ' 
he  added  sullenly. 

Seriozha  hesitated  a  second,  then  shook  his  head  reso- 
lutely, and  said  harshly,  forestalling  any  attempt  at 
argument : 

' '  Our  duty  is  not  to  reason. ' ' 

"Not  to  reason?" 

' '  Yes.    Our  duty  is  to  do  it. ' ' 

"You  think  so?" 

"Yes,  I  think  so." 

Ippolit  dropped  his  eyes. 

"Well,  good-bye,  Seriozha." 

"Good-bye." 

Seriozha  wanted  to  stop  him  and  embrace  him,  but 
Ippolit  was  already  gone.  A  cold  thought  flashed 
through  his  mind:  "I'll  never  see,  him  again."  He 
sighed  and  started  off  for  the  railway  station  taking 
long  strides. 

The  day  was  gloomy.  Heavy  clouds  covered  the  sky, 
and  a  light  rain  fell  intermittently.  The  bomb  was  un- 
comfortably heavy,  and  Seriozha  was  afraid  of  dropping 
it.  On  the  corner  of  Gorokhovaya  and  Fontanka  Streets, 
he  saw  Bolotov  with  his  hack.  He  saw  the  well-known 
eyes,  now  so  dearly  beloved,  and  the  black  horse  with 
white  hoofs.    Without  stopping,  he  touched  his  soft  hat. 


What  Never  Happened  257 

At  the  station  on  Zagorodnaya  Street  an  officious-look- 
ing police  inspector  walked  to  and  fro  with  his  plump 
hands  behind  his  back  and  a  policeman  beside  him  keep- 
ing watch.  Tiying  not  to  look  at  him  Seriozha  crossed 
the  street  and  ran  up  the  steps.  But  as  soon  as  he 
reached  the  station  platform  he  saw  an  immense  gen- 
darme with  epaulets  standing  at  attention.  From  a 
side  door  guarded  by  a  sentry  appeared  a  dry-looking, 
bent  old  man  in  a  general's  uniform.  He  was  walking 
rapidly,  his  left  leg  limping  slightly.  The  distance  be- 
tween him  and  Seriozha  was  about  sixty  feet,  and  there 
were  two  spies  and  the  immense  gendarme  right  there ; 
yet  Seriozha,  fearing  the  old  man  might  escape  him, 
threw  out  his  right  hand  and  ran  towards  him.  He 
had  hardly  had  time  to  cover  half  the  distance  when  the 
old  man  suddenly  stopped,  took  hold  of  the  coach,  turned 
his  wrinkled  face,  and  looked  straight  at  Seriozha. 
Seriozha,  with  eyes  dimmed  as  if  by  sleep,  saw  his 
frightened  look.  He  knew  he  would  be  prevented  from 
running  up  to  him  and  the  attempt  had  failed,  but  still 
hoping  for  a  miracle  he  rapidly  swung  his  arm  and  with 
all  his  might,  so  that  it  hurt  his  shoulder,  hurled  the 
round,  heavy  bomb.  He  did  not  hear  the  explosion. 
When  the  smoke  cleared  away  Seriozha  lay  motionless 
on  the  platform  with  his  hands  stretched  forward  along- 
side the  dead  gendarme.  Over  his  face  and  chest  hot 
streams  of  blood  were  flowing.  The  old  man  in  the 
general's  coat  stood  at  the  steps  of  the  coach,  his  lower 
jaw  trembling. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

TOWARDS  the  end  of  April  the  Imperial  Duma 
opened.  The  committee,  after  long  delibera- 
tions, decided  to  halt  the  terrorist  activity 
temporarily.  Doctor  Berg  insisted  upon  the  complete 
abolition  of  the  fighting  organization.  He  contended 
that  in  the  Party  Parliamentary  work  was  inconsistent 
with  terrorism.  His  arguments  met  with  success.  The 
majority  ruled  "to  hold  the  men  under  arms."  It 
meant  that  all  the  terrorists,  in  St.  Petersburg,  in  the 
provincial  towns,  and  in  Moscow,  were  obliged  to  risk 
their  lives  in  vain. 

Through  the  whole  spring  and  the  hot  summer,  Bolo- 
tov  kept  to  his  driver's  seat.  Seriozha's  death  had  made 
him  obdurate,  though  he  still  felt  disgusted  with  the 
fighting  police's  "activity"  and  was  embarrassed  by  his 
double-faced  occupation. 

But  now  he  often  caught  himself  thinking  other, 
secret,  revengeful  thoughts.  Frequently  lying  on  his 
cot  at  night,  when  the  drivers  were  snoring  loudly,  and 
darkness  filled  every  corner,  and  the  lamps  shimmered 
dimly  and  lazily,  he  would  lie  awake  till  dawn,  thinking 
about  the  prosecutor.  As  he  gazed  wide-eyed  at  the  low, 
soot-covered,  misty  ceiling,  he  would  recall  the  painful 
day  when  he  saw  Seriozha  for  the  last  time.  And  grad- 
ually, secretly,  like  a  sly  and  skilful  thief,  a  new  feeling 
crept  upon  him,  the  desire  to  kill.  He  feared  these 
thoughts  that  were  a  sign  of  degeneration.     Indignantly 

258 


What  Never  Happened  259 

he  would  reproach  himself  for  his  fury,  for  the  wild 
anger  of  revengeful  savagerj^,  but  he  could  not  control 
himself.  He  became  gloomy,  did  not  talk  to  Porfirych, 
nor  listen  to  the  drunken  conj&dences  of  Strelov,  and, 
on  seeing  Supritkin,  would  hasten  to  get  out  of  his  way. 
The  yard,  criss-crossed  by  the  wheel  tracks,  overrun  with 
lice,  permeated  by  the  smell  of  manure,  disfigured  by 
the  presence  of  the  slatternly  women,  and  noisy  with  the 
pawing  of  the  horses  in  the  stalls,  oppressed  him.  He 
feared  these  idle  days  of  his  would  never  end  and  the 
prosecutor  would  not  be  killed. 

In  the  streets  this  wrathful  feeling  gained  an  even 
stronger  hold  on  him.  As  he  passed  Fontanka  and 
Sadovaya  Streets  and  the  Church  of  the  Holy  Mother, 
as  he  entered  the  drivers'  eating-houses,  he  would  recall 
his  short  meetings  with  Seriozha,  his  strange  but  now 
unforgettable  words,  so  full  of  love.  And  though  the 
work  of  terror  had  been  temporarily  suspended,  he  tried 
to  continue  the  spying  on  his  own  account,  without 
anybody's  instructions.  He  would  spend  hours  around 
government  buildings  at  the  war  ministry,  the 
Imperial  council,  the  Tavrichesky  Palace,  the  Chief  of 
Staff ;  and  would  diligently  watch  for  the  lame  bent  old 
man  in  the  general's  coat.  He  believed  it  was  his  su- 
preme duty  and  his  duty  to  the  Party  to  secure  victory 
at  the  cost  of  the  most  difficult  labour.  This  faith  in- 
spired him  and  justified  the  contemplated  murder. 

After  Seriozha 's  death,  Bolotov  came  to  appreciate 
the  manner  of  Ippolit's  life.  He  understood  that  this 
man,  tired  by  the  unequal  struggle,  orphaned  and  ex- 
hausted, was  veritably  possessed  by  hate,  by  wrathful 
anger.  Ippolit  was  sure  he  was  not  alone,  that  Arseny 
Ivanovich,  Doctor  Berg,  Vera  Andreyevna,  the  com- 


260  What  Never  Happened 

mittee,  the  Party,  and  the  whole  Russian  people  were 
awaiting  this  assassination  to  which  they  had  pledged 
themselves.  He  was  convinced  it  was  only  by  chance 
that  he  headed  the  squad,  and  every  member  of  the 
Party,  every  hungry  peasant,  every  poor  student  would 
gladly  take  his  place  and  sacrifice  his  life.  He  was 
unconscious  of  being  an  exception,  of  Russia  now  being 
silent,  of  the  revolution  having  been  shattered,  and  his 
bombs  being  the  last  cold  flickerings  of  a  dying  fire. 
Yet  even  had  he  been  convinced  that  the  government 
had  won  and  the  Party  lacked  the  strength  to  fight  when 
the  people  were  not  back  of  it,  he  could  not  have  de- 
serted the  "work."  He  thought  death  alone  was  the 
crown  of  this  bloody  work,  and  he  awaited  death  as  he 
would  have  awaited  reward  and  redemption. 

He  found  sympathy  and  support  in  his  friend  Abram. 
Abram  was  a  huge,  good-natured  giant,  with  a  broad, 
child-like  face.  He  was  a  tanner  by  trade,  and  had  a 
family  in  Vilna.  Neither  editorials,  nor  the  speeches  of 
orators  had  convinced  him  of  the  necessity  of  a  "sys- 
tematic" terror.  Experience,  pogroms,  houses  burned 
down  and  children  shot  to  death  had  taught  him  the 
cruelty  of  the  average  smug  life,  and  he  did  not  doubt 
the  righteousness  of  "fire  and  sword."  Like  Ippolit, 
he  cherished  an  unshaken  faith  that  he  was  blessed  by 
the  people,  by  Israel  martyred  through  the  centuries, 
and  the  heart  which  has  tired  of  hate  ' '  shall  never  learn 
to  love." 

On  one  point  they  could  not  agree.  Abram  spoke 
about  the  "masters"  and  students,  with  an  ironical, 
contemptuous  smile,  and  he  had  no  love  for  the  com- 
mittee. To  heated  assertions  that  he  was  unjust,  that 
the  committee  made  no  distinctions  between  landowner 


What  Never  Happened  261 

and  workmen,  soldier  and  general,  he  stubbornly  and 
distrustfully  answered,  "I  know!  Ha!  Don't  rub 
it  in.  The  same  exploitation.  American  graft." 
His  place  had  been  in  Volodya's  troop,  but  by  a  happy 
coincidence  he  was  found  by  Ippolit,  to  whom — the  * '  ex- 
ploiter" and  "student" — he  became  attached,  body  and 
soul.  Bolotov  liked  his  smiling  Jewish  eyes  and  na'ive 
simplicity  of  soul — the  absence  of  the  problems  of  the 
Intelligentzia. 

Anna,  an  unmarried  woman  of  thirty,  with  a  thin, 
pale  face  and  full,  sparkling  grey  eyes  prepared  the 
bombs  and  took  care  of  the  dynamite.  She  had  been  a 
village  nurse,  and  had  acquired  a  deep  and  earnest  love 
for  the  people,  a  love  not  founded  on  books  and  pro- 
grams, but  on  life.  It  was  this  that  had  forced  her  into 
terrorism.  She  knew  no  hate,  no  wrath  and,  like  Seri- 
ozha,  she  was  oppressed  by  murder.  But  she  thought 
that  by  killing  officials  and  nobles  she  was  doing  an 
invaluable  service,  was  bringing  nearer  the  day  of  revo- 
lution, that  day,  when,  "there  shall  be  no  rich  and  no 
poor — no  masters  and  no  slaves,  no  sovereigns  and  no 
subjects."  She  dressed  carelessly,  smoked  long  cigar- 
ettes and  spoke  with  an  accent  on  the  "0,"  like  the 
inhabitants  of  Nizhni  Novgorod.  Bolotov  became  at- 
tached to  her.  He  liked  her  humbleness,  her  readiness 
to  give  her  life,  her  inspired  tales  about  the  village  and 
the  peasants,  her  kindness,  her  truthfulness,  and  her 
rough,  almost  masculine  voice.  She  respected  the  com- 
mittee, and  believed  the  Party  was  destined  to  conquer 
the  world. 

The  chief  military  prosecutor  lived  in  Liteiny  Pros- 
pect, in  a  gloomy,  uncomfortable,  barracklike  house. 
Towards  the  end  of  August  the  fact  was  established  by 


262  What  Never  Happened 

means  of  spying  that  every  Thursday  he  went  to  the 
war  ministry.  Bolotov  not  only  knew  his  face,  mous- 
taches, hair,  medals,  and  epaulets  by  heart,  but  even  his 
driver,  his  horses,  his  carriage,  its  wheels,  spokes,  lamps, 
reins,  steps  and  windows.  He  could  recognize  the  prose- 
cutor at  a  distance  of  fifty  yards  and  could  foretell 
whether  he  would  go  out  or  not.  Whenever  he  left  his 
residence,  spies  were  stationed  at  the  entrance,  and  con- 
cierges were  on  guard  at  the  gates. 

It  was  Indian  Summer.  The  days  were  clear,  trans- 
parent, crystalline.  In  the  Petrovsky  Park  the  birches 
were  turning  golden.  The  birds  no  longer  sang,  and  in 
the  evening  beyond  the  Neva  the  sea  sparkled  in  the 
fjery  rays  of  the  setting  sun.  The  nights  were  cool,  the 
sky  alight  with  silvery  stars,  and  the  early  mornings  be- 
gan to  be  frosty.  One  Monday  at  the  beginning  of 
September  Bolotov  met  the  prosecutor  on  the  Nevsky 
Prospect.  He  returned  home  in  the  evening,  unhitched 
his  sweating  horse,  and  put  it  in  the  stall.  Without 
fixing  up  his  cab  he  put  on  his  linen  cap  and,  avoiding 
the  ill-smelling  pools,  went  outside  the  gates.  Near  the 
gates,  on  a  bench  sat  Strelov,  black  and  long-haired, 
and  the  stout  concierge  Supritkin. 

"The  chief  of  police  was  asking  for  you,"  said  Sup- 
ritkin, offering  his  fat  hand  without  looking  at  Bolotov 
and  yawning. 

"The  chief  of  police?" 

"Yes,  Khrisanf  Valeryanovieh. " 

"What  does  he  want?"  Strelov  asked  with  a  wink. 
"Don't  you  know?  Look  at  the  infant.  Surely  not 
milk  for  the  children.     What?" 

Supritkin  sighed. 

"He  said  you  should  come  to  the  police-station.** 


Wliat  Never  Happened  263 

"To  the  station?     What  for?" 

"What  for?  On  business.  The  government  says  so. 
We  don't  know." 

For  the  first  time  Bolotov  observed  Supritkin  closely 
— his  fleshy  bull  neck,  his  baggy  eyes,  his  red  beard,  his 
shiny  boots  and  his  dull,  self-complacent  glistening  face. 

'*We  fight,  we  offer  our  lives,  and  this  fellow,  this 
Supritkin — !  These  Supritkins  and  Strelovs  will  come 
and  overpower  us,  will  win  by  their  magnificent  dulness, 
by  their  well-fed  bellies,  their  foolish  self-satisfaction, 
their  boots,  harmonicas  and  wooden  self-assurance,"  he 
thought,  becoming  excited  and  trying  to  conceal  his 
traitorous  emotions.  Strelov  coughed  and  said  care- 
fully: 

"The  other  day  they  brought  a  phonograph  to  The 
Friends.     Now  it's  just  time." 

"Just  time  for  what?" 

**Just  the  time  to  go  to  The  Friends." 

Supritkin  looked  at  him  severely. 

"You  only  go  to  cafes.  Well,  aren't  you  going  to  the 
station-house?"  he  said  to  Bolotov,  without  turning  his 
head. 

"Yes,  I'm  going." 

"Why  the  chief  of  police?  A  fine?  But  if  it  was  a 
fine  he  wouldn't  summon  me  to  the  station-house. 
Passport?  But  my  passport  is  all  right.  Am  I  being 
spied  upon?"  Bolotov  thought,  as  he  turned  into  the 
Zabalkansky  Prospect.  "Spied  upon  now,  when  all  is 
ready,  when  the  Duma  has  been  disbanded  and  the  com- 
mittee has  given  its  consent,  when  I  know  his  carriage  ? 
No,  impossible."  He  was  so  well  known  in  the  restau- 
rant and  the  drivers'  hotel,  he  bargained  so  skilfully 
with  passengers,  he  could  give  graft  to  the  policemen 


264  What  Never  Happened 

so  imblushingly,  he  had  become  so  accustomed  to  groom 
and  harness  the  horse  and  to  carry  oats,  he  had  grown 
so  thoroughly  into  this  driver's  life,  that  it  seemed  in- 
conceivable to  him  that  he  could  be  spied  upon.  But 
when  he  turned  into  Fontanka  Street  and  saw  the  dirty 
cafe  where  he  sometimes  used  to  meet  Seriozha,  he  felt 
uneasy.  "And  if  they  do  catch  me?  Then  there  will 
be  no  attempt,  the  prosecutor  will  not  be  killed,  and 
Seriozha  will  have  died  in  vain.  And  I  shall  be  guilty. '  * 
He  looked  around.  There  was  no  one  behind  him.  The 
quay  was  deserted,  with  only  a  solitary  policeman  in  the 
distance  on  the  bridge.  "I  must  tell  Ippolit.  Let  Ip- 
polit  decide.  Should  the  squad  perish?"  He  forgot 
about  himself.  And  it  was  only  as  he  approached  the 
restaurant,  The  Deer,  the  usual  meeting-place,  that 
he  realized  he  would  die.  ''I'll  be  dying  in  vain,  with- 
out having  killed.  Yes,  I  am  to  die.  No,  it's  impos- 
sible." 

The  same  day  Ippolit  advised  Bolotov  not  to  return  to 
the  drivers'  hotel,  to  abandon  his  driver's  outfit  and 
leave  temporarily  for  Moscow.  As  he  was  leaving,  Bolo- 
tov felt  certain  he  would  kill  the  prosecutor. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

1PP0LIT  feared  the  squad  was  being  watched.  He 
warned  the  committee  of  the  fact  and  decided  to 
hasten  the  contemplated  attempt.  On  Thursday, 
the  tenth  of  September,  Vanya  was  to  be  stationed  with 
a  bomb  on  Fontanka  Street,  Abram,  at  the  Tsepnoy 
Bridge,  Bolotov,  on  Liteiny  Prospect.  It  was  along  one 
of  these  routes  that  the  prosecutor  would  pass  on  his  way 
to  the  Ministry  of  War.  This  time  there  was  some  hope 
that  the  attempt  would  be  successful. 

Bolotov  arrived  at  St.  Petersburg  on  the  first  train. 
Now,  a  few  hours  before  the  murder,  he  experienced  the 
cold  indifference  that  had  possessed  him  at  the  barri- 
cades in  Moscow.  Without  thinking  and  without  feel- 
ing any  excitement,  merely  because  the  habit  of  conceal- 
ment had  become  second  nature  to  him,  he  took  the  train 
at  Klina  and  got  off  at  the  Obukhrova  Station.  Not 
wishing  to  wander  about  the  streets  of  St.  Petersburg, 
he  went  to  a  saloon  and  began  to  wait  patiently  for  the 
appointed  hour. 

The  raid  kept  up  its  irritating  rattling  on  the  misty 
wandow-pane  outside,  pedestrians  passed  by  with  um- 
brellas and  goloshes,  and  the  driver  slumbered  on  his 
seat.  Across  the  street,  near  the  closed  doors  of  a  wine 
store,  a  crowd  of  people  jostled  each  other.  Bolotov 
took  special  notice  of  one  tramp.  He  was  unkempt  and 
dirty,  with  a  sickly,  greenish  face  and  red,  inflamed  eyes. 
He  had  no  coat,  but  wore  instead  a  torn  woman's  blouse, 

265 


266  What  Never  Happened 

and  was  barefoot  in  spite  of  the  cold  autumn  weather/ 
Pressing  his  freezing  hands  to  his  chest  and  bending  his 
weakened  body,  he  jumped  up  and  down  rapidly  in  an 
attempt  to  get  warm.  He  was  shivering  with  cold. 
iWhen  Bolotov  saw  this  man  and  the  weeping  heavens 
and  the  policeman  in  his  cloak  and  the  government  wine- 
store  and  the  wet  walls  of  the  houses — the  whole  dull, 
sodden  day  in  this  city  of  St.  Petersburg — the  murder 
appeared  unnecessary,  without  life  or  truth.  It  became 
strange  that  he  was  preparing  to  kill,  that  he  would 
surely  kill,  that  he  would  surely  hang,  and  that  the  rain 
would  keep  falling,  the  policeman  would  keep  on  getting 
wet,  the  windows  would  keep  on  shedding  tears,  the 
drunken,  hungry  people  would  keep  on  jumping  up  and 
down  and  shivering.  "Will  I  die?"  he  asked  himself, 
holding  in  his  breath.  ''Yes,  of  course  I'll  die — for 
them?  Yes,  for  them — and  for  all — and  for  every- 
thing,*' he  answered  with  proud  joy. 

But  as  soon  as  he  had  said  these  words,  it  was  in- 
stantly borne  in  upon  him  with  absolute  definiteness  that 
he  had  the  right  over  his  own  life — ^that  neither  the 
prosecutor  nor  Seriozha,  nor  the  Party,  nor  the  squad, 
nor  even  Russia  could  force  him  to  die,  could  have  the 
right  to  condemn  him  as  an  unwilling  sacrifice.  He 
glanced  around  the  saloon.  And  the  whole  unpleasant 
place,  the  dishes,  the  waiters,  the  barkeeper,  the  guests 
and  the  filthy  tables,  suddenly  seemed  cosy  and  at- 
tractive. He  was  loath  to  leave  it.  But  it  was  nine 
o'clock.  Bolotov  threw  some  coins  on  the  table,  and 
reluctantly  went  out  pulling  his  cap  over  his  forehead. 
The  hungry  tramp  was  still  jumping  up  and  down  in 
the  rain,  looking  with  greedy  dejection  at  the  unattain- 
able doors. 


What  Never  Happened  267, 

Bolotov  turned  into  Fontanka  Street  and  passed 
through  the  circus  into  the  Summer  Park.  It  was  cold 
in  the  Park,  the  rain  fell  unceasingly,  and  his  feet  sank 
into  the  wet  gravel.  Naked  goddesses  and  nymphs,  not 
yet  covered  with  straw  for  the  winter,  stood  forlornly 
among  the  bushes.  The  place  looked  deserted  and 
gloomy.  The  clouds  crept  dejectedly  across  the  sky. 
Bolotov  was  getting  soaked  and  felt  sorry  again  that  he 
was  not  in  the  beer  saloon.  In  a  lonely  alley,  near  the 
wet  fence,  he  met  Anna.  They  were  both  wet  and 
pale,  Anna  was  carrying  a  square,  black  portfolio,  with 
"Music"  printed  on  it  in  golden  lettering.  Bolotov 
took  the  bomb  silently  and  began  to  wrap  it  carefully  in 
a  red  handkerchief. 

*'Be  careful,"  Anna  said  aloud. 

Bolotov  made  a  tight  knot.  He  heard  his  heart 
beating  harder  and  more  unevenly  and  the  lead 
weight  inside  the  bomb  ticking  in  unison  with  his 
heart. 

"  I  am  going  to  die, ' '  flashed  through  his  mind  again. 
But  this  time  he  was  insensible  to  the  meaning  of  the 
words. 

He  would  not  have  the  courage  to  die,  it  was  all  a 
dream,  he  felt.  That  in  ten  minutes  he  would  leave  the 
Park,  leave  these  people,  so  close,  yet  so  remote  from 
him,  would  meet  the  carriage  and  throw  the  bomb,  and 
himself  would  surely  be  killed — it  all  was  unbelievable, 
absurd,  terrible.  He  called  up  a  clear  picture  of  the 
drivers'  inn,  of  the  tumbledown  stalls,  Supritkin,  Strelov, 
the  restaurant,  The  Friends,  and  Squabbler,  white- 
hoofed,  snorting  and  whinnying  at  his  approach.  And 
that  servile  life  so  full  of  hardship,  the  coldness  and 
hunger   and   filth,   the   cursing,   the   drunkenness,   thq 


268  What  Never  Happened 

''spying,"  Seriozha,  the  committee,  all  seemed  a  cloud- 
less, unattainable  state  of  joy. 

"And  Vanya?"  Bolotov  said  hesitatingly. 

**Vanya — Vanya  is  already  at  his  place.  Abram, 
too,"  Anna  replied.  "If  the  prosecutor  does  not  show 
up,  come  at  twelve  o'clock." 

Bolotov,  walking  with  bowed  head,  left  the  Park, 
stepping  carefully,  so  as  not  to  stumble.  Hardly  con- 
scious of  where  he  was  going  he  turned  in  to  Liteiny 
Prospect.  The  bomb  ticked  rhythmically.  *  *  Tick,  tack ; 
tick,  tack,"  it  sounded  to  him  from  within.  It  was  the 
weight  running  up  and  down  the  tube.  Should  he  but 
press  it  a  little  tighter,  the  tube  would  split  and  the 
mercury  explode.  Well,  and  what  if  it  did?  So  much 
the  better.  I  should  not  hear  it  at  any  rate.  He  smiled 
quietly  and  tightened  his  hold  on  the  bomb.  Trembling 
slightly,  he  came  to  the  Simeonovsky  Bridge.  On 
Fontanka  Street,  near  the  Bridge,  stood  Vanya,  in  an 
overcoat  and  high  boots,  holding  a  heavy  bundle  in  his 
hands.  At  Boltov's  approach,  his  clever,  narrow,  slit- 
like eyes  sparkled,  and  he  said  in  a  kind,  grave  whisper : 

"A  man  goes,  but  God  leads  him.  Good  luck,  Andrey 
Nikolayevich. ' ' 

Bolotov  did  not  answer  immediately.  A  flush 
mounted  to  his  cheeks.  He  felt  ashamed  that  he  had 
thought  of  himself,  had  felt  regret  at  giving  his  life,  and 
on  the  day  when  every  bit  of  his  courage  was  needed,  he 
bargained  with  himself  like  a  servant.  "Am  I  a  cow- 
ard?" he  asked  himself,  in  self -hatred,  and  turned  pale. 
"How  about  Seriozha  and  the  Party  and  the  squad?" 
With  a  happy  feeling  of  relief  and  in  the  consciousness 
that  he  was  to  die  and  that  he  had  no  fear  of  death,  he 
turned  to  Vanya  and  said: 


What  Never  Happened  269 

"For  land  and  freedom!" 

It  was  almost  ten  o'clock.  The  rain  was  falling 
noisily,  but  the  sun  was  pushing  through  the  ragged 
clouds.  Bolotov  turned  into  the  Liteiny  Prospect  and 
stopped  at  a  tobacco  store.  His  head  was  somewhat 
dizzy  and  his  heart  was  still  pounding.  He  looked  dully 
at  the  multicoloured  goods  in  the  window  and  read  the 
name:  "Blend  Eel  String,  price,  one  ruble."  "What 
does  it  mean,  string?  Blend  string?  And  why  one 
ruble?"  He  felt  weary  and  his  back  ached,  as  if  some 
one  were  forcing  him  down  with  all  his  weight,  and  he 
looked  indifferently  at  the  entrance  to  the  prosecutor's 
house,  and  though  there  was  a  policeman  on  guard  at 
the  entrance,  and  concierges  on  guard  at  the  gate,  and 
spies  slinking  about  in  the  streets,  he  did  not  want  to, 
could  not,  believe,  that  soon  the  prosecutor  would  ap- 
pear two  yards  away. 

"And  suppose  he  does  not  come  out,"  he  thought, 
with  a  secret  cowardly  hope.  He  did  not  dare  acknowl- 
edge to  himself  that  deep  down  in  his  tortured  soul 
there  lurked  a  dark  prayer:  "May  he  not  come  out, 
may  he  not  come  out,  may  he  not  come  out."  He  tried 
with  all  his  might  to  chase  the  thought  from  his  mind, 
but  it  surged  back  the  more  insistently.  He  longed  for 
some  unforeseen  chance  to  prevent  the  attempt.  "Then 
I  am  a  coward, ' '  he  thought  disgustedly,  flushing  deeply. 
But  he  suddenly  straightened  up  in  tense  expectation. 
Along  Liteiny  Prospect,  from  the  direction  of  Basseinaya 
Street,  on  the  right  side  about  forty  yards  away,  a  car- 
riage was  coming  towards  him  rapidly.  Bolotov  im- 
mediately recognized  the  prosecutor.  He  recognized 
the  heavy  driver  with  the  red  whiskers  and  the  round 
hat    with    a    peacock    feather.    He    recognized    the 


270  What  Never  Happened 

fine  black  horses,  the  sparkling  harness  and  the  red 
wheel-spokes.  That  instant  all  the  doubts  that  had 
been  troubling  him,  pity  for  himself,  the  desire  to  live, 
and  fear  of  the  assassination  vanished  like  a  dream.  He 
thought  of  Seriozha.  He  could  hear  the  ticking  of  the 
bomb.  He  made  two  heavy  steps  forward  and  stopped. 
He  was  standing  on  the  asphalt  sidewalk,  lean,  tall, 
and  blue-eyed,  his  blue  jacket  unbuttoned,  and  holding 
the  heavy  bomb.  He  watched  the  approaching  carriage 
with  burning  eyes.  He  saw  the  snorting  thoroughbreds, 
the  red-whiskered  driver,  the  shining  body  of  the  car- 
riage, and  distinctly  heard  the  clatter  of  the  iron  horse- 
shoes. When  the  carriage  was  only  a  few  feet  away,  he 
ran  into  the  middle  of  the  street  and  raised  the  bomb 
over  his  head.  Through  the  carriage  window  he  saw  the 
dried-up  old  man  in  the  general's  uniform.  He  was 
sitting  huddled  up,  asleep  in  a  corner ;  but  suddenly  he 
trembled,  stretched  out  his  hand,  and  thiTist  out  his 
shrunken  medal-covered  chest.  His  old,  yellow, 
wrinkled  face,  with  its  undaunted,  but  inquisitive  eyes, 
appeared  at  the  window.  There  was  no  time  to  think. 
Bolotov  made  a  sweeping  motion  with  the  bomb  tied  up 
in  the  handkerchief  and  wincing  as  if  he  were  falling 
into  cold  water,  threw  it  against  the  window. 

On  the  instant  the  glass  broke  with  a  crashing  sound, 
and  a  blow  over  the  head  dazed  him  for  a  moment. 
Breathing  in  the  hot  smoke,  he  stood  motionless  for  a 
second,  not  believing  that  all  was  over.  When  he  came 
to  himself  he  saw  blood  streaming  over  his  burned 
shoulders,  and  instead  of  the  horses  and  the  carriage, 
he  saw  a  soft,  blood-covered  mass.  To  the  right,  near 
the  sidewalk,  lay  the  stout  driver.  He  was  naked  to  the 
waist.    Bolotov  saw  the  bare,  pinkish  body,  the  hair  on 


What  Never  Happened  271 

his  chest  and  the  big,  blown-up  belly.  One  eye  was 
swollen,  blue  and  half-closed,  the  other,  glassy-like, 
stared  straight  at  him.  Bolotov  sobbed,  and  imme- 
diately somebody  caught  his  hands  from  behind. 

"  I  've  got  you.  A-a-a !  No,  sir,  you  won 't  get  away, ' ' 
a  terrified  voice  was  shouting. 

Bolotov  did  not  try  to  free  himself.  He  looked  down 
again.  He  saw  the  same  round  glassy  eye,  with  its 
fixed,  surprised  stare.  "What  came  after  that,  Bolotov 
could  never  recall.  Some  one  knocked  him  down  with  a 
blow  in  his  face,  and  he  lost  consciousness. 


CHAPTER  XV 

VOLODYA'S  troop  did  not  expropriate  half  a 
million  rubles  on  Podyacheskaya  Street,  as 
Mitya  had  expected,  but  only  two  hundred 
thousand.  With  the  help  of  this  money  Volodya  en- 
larged his  organization  and  applied  himself  to  the  car- 
rying out  of  his  cherished  dream — "systematic  terror." 
In  May  the  governor  of  Tver  was  killed  and  an  agent  of 
the  secret  service  mortally  wounded ;  in  July  a  bomb  was 
thrown  at  the  minister  of  justice;  in  August  the  troop 
set  fire  to  two  manor-houses;  in  September  they  robbed 
the  Voronins'  office  near  the  Khopilovsky  Ponds  in 
Moscow,  and  shot  the  chief  of  gendarmes  on  the  streets 
of  Kiev.  Volodya 's  name  rang  throughout  Rus- 
sia. Even  Arseny  Ivanovich  shook  his  grey  head  and 
said  to  the  committee,  "If  one  loafs  and  goes  fishing, 
my  benefactors,  he  can't  have  a  thing.  Volodya  there 
has  his  hands  full,  and  what  he  does  is  worth  doing." 
Of  course,  Arseny  Ivanovich  did  not  approve  of  "private 
expropriations, ' '  but  he  could  not  den}'  that  he  regretted 
that  a  revolutionist  of  such  iron  will  as  Volodya  had  left 
the  Party  "for  no  reason,"  for  a  "mere  whim." 

Volodya 's  squad  grew  considerably  in  numbers,  but 
changed  in  personnel.  Mitya  was  hanged  in  Tver,  Prok- 
hor  was  killed  in  Kiev;  Yelizar  was  arrested  in  Moscow, 
and  Epstein  went  to  Paris  to  edit  a  "free  journal."  Of 
the  old  picked  fighters,  only  Freze  and  the  Fly  remained, 
besides  Olga.  On  the  other  hand,  about  forty  new  mem- 
bers joined  his  squad — students,  workmen,  and  Jewish 

272 


What  Never  Happened  273 

artisans.  The  numbers  had  grown,  and  not  all  were 
now  taking  part  in  the  terrorist  activity,  but  the  ma- 
jority were  kept  waiting  impatiently  for  ' '  work. ' '  And 
the  unoccupied  members,  wearied  by  idleness  and  lone- 
liness and  much  vain  talk,  began  to  revert  to  strife,  to 
that  ''babbling  of  the  Intelligentzia"  which  Volodya 
hated  so  utterly.  But  he  was  powerless  to  resist  this 
empty  talk.  He  treated  the  stream  of  advice,  the  scores 
of  "sure  schemes,"  with  contempt,  and  was  only  careful 
that  the  talk  should  not  endanger  the  secrecy  of  his  work. 
He  prevented  the  comrades  from  holding  meetings  and 
communicating  with  their  relatives.  But  he  did  not  al- 
ways succeed.  He  could  not  sufficiently  impress  the  im- 
portance of  caution  upon  his  people.  Terror  was  suc- 
ceeding, the  squad  was  strong,  there  was  enough  money, 
and  it  was  hard  to  believe  that  arrests  were  possible. 
Gradually,  because  of  their  idleness  and  boredom,  drunk- 
enness began  to  spread  among  the  men,  and  one  day  a 
deserter  by  the  name  of  Svistkov  sold  his  revolver 
to  buy  liquor.  Volodya  refused  to  accept  humilia- 
ting explanations  and  immediately  expelled  him. 
However,  that  did  not  stop  the  drinking.  It  was  kept 
up  in  secret,  hidden  from  both  his  and  Freze's  knowl- 
edge. 

In  that  one  summer  Volodya  aged  five  years.  His 
quick  hazel  eyes  lost  their  lustre,  and  premature 
wrinkles  appeared  about  his  lips.  He  still  had  faith  in 
himself,  in  the  unimpeachable  righteousness  of  terror. 
But  he  no  longer  doubted  that  his  men  would  scatter  if 
he  should  be  hanged.  He  made  no  reply  to  Epstein, 
who  wrote  from  Paris  that  "everything  was  permissible 
to  the  strong  of  purpose."  He  paid  no  attention  to 
Olga's  dissertations  on  the  "abysses  of  the  high  and  the 


274  What  Never  Happened 

low,"  but  he  had  long  private  talks  with  Freze.  He  had 
a  vagiie  feeling  that  the  wave  of  blood  and  unrestrained 
murder  that  had  risen  after  the  first  "expropriation" 
was  threatening  to  drown  the  squad  and  terror  and 
even  himself.  Sometimes  he  sat  up  whole  nights 
through,  thinking.  But  had  any  one  asked  him  just 
what  his  thoughts  were,  he  would  have  been  unable  to 
answer.  Olga  observed  him  in  perplexity.  The  work 
seemed  to  be  going  along  nicely,  and  Volodya  ought  to 
condone  the  petty  offences  of  drunkenness,  empty  talk, 
and  quarrelling.  Freze  alone  understood  Volodya 's 
worries.  Himself  of  a  quiet,  exacting  nature,  he  kept 
a  strict  eye  upon  every  movement  of  the  squad.  He 
bore  the  whole  burden  of  the  daily  labour  with  its  dull, 
petty  details.  Not  only  was  he  responsible  for  the 
funds,  the  secret  gathering-places,  the  passports,  ammu- 
nition, assignments,  and  bombs,  but  he  knew  each  of  the 
fighters  personally,  and  because  he  knew  them  so  well,  he 
shared  Volodya 's  anxiety.  The  Fly  annoyed  him  par- 
ticularly. After  the  Khopilovsky  expropriation  an 
abrupt  change  had  come  over  the  man.  From  an  obed- 
ient, devoted  member  of  the  squad,  he  suddenly  became 
lazy  and  insolent. 

It  had  been  decided  that  the  troop  was  to  assassinate 
the  governor  of  ]\Ioscow  in  October.  A  week  before  the 
date  set,  the  Fly  announced  that  he  would  like  to  have 
a  private  talk  with  Volodya. 

Volodya  made  an  appointment  with  him  in  Sokolniki, 
at  the  same  place  he  had  first  met  him  half  a  year  be- 
fore. The  day  was  gloomy  and  rainy.  The  wet  firs 
looked  sorrowful.  The  last  yellow  leaves  were  drooping 
from  the  dying  birches.  The  air  smelled  of  wet  grass 
and  moss.    The  Fly  walked  at  Volodya 's  side  with  a 


What  Never  Happened  275 

brisk  step,  his  hands  behind  his  back.  He  spoke  with 
barely  concealed  irritation. 

"Judge  for  yourself,  Vladimir  Ivanovich.  This 
isn't  my  first  day  with  you.  Haven't  I  been  trying  my 
best?  Think  of  Podyacheskaya  Street,  for  instance,  or 
Kiev,  when  Proshka  was  killed.  I  can  say  I  have  never 
stopped  at  risking  my  life." 

*'Well?" 

''Well,  Vladimir  Ivanovich,  and  what  do  I  get  for  it? 
Instead  of  gratitude,  an  absolute  lack  of  confidence. 
Take  Herman  Karlovicli  Freze.  He  sticks  his  long  nose 
into  everything.  'How  much  did  you  spend  yesterday? 
Where  were  you?  Where  are  you  going?  Let  me  see 
your  passport.  Let  me  see  your  gun.'  "  The  Fly  gave 
a  faithful  imitation  of  Freze  and  then  spat  contemp- 
tuously. "What  is  it?  As  if  we  were  on  a  ship,  by 
God.  I'm  no  slave,  let  me  tell  you,  Vladimir  Ivano- 
vich." 

"Are  you  dissatisfied?"  Volodya  asked  harshly. 

"I  really  don't  know  how  to  explain."  The  Fly 
stopped  short  and  began  to  roll  a  cigarette.  The 
matches  were  damp  and  it  took  him  a  long  time  to 
light  it. 

"Answer  my  question." 

"Well,  I  am  dissatisfied." 

"Freze?" 

"No,  sir.  What's  Freze?  Let  him  go  in  peace,  Mr. 
Freze." 

"Then  what  is  it?     Tell  me." 

"Oh,  everything,  Vladimir  Ivanovich." 

"Be  plain.    What  is  it?" 

"Please  tell  me,  how  can  I  be  satisfied?  First  of  all, 
absolutely  no  confidence." 


276  What  Never  Happened 

Volodya  halted  and  gazed  at  the  Fly  searchingly. 
The  Fly  daringly  raised  his  rapacious,  hawklike  face. 

"Take  care,  Fly!" 

"As  you  please,  Vladimir  Ivanovich.'* 

"Speak  out,  what  do  you  want?" 

"Oh,  what's  the  use?  Mere  talk  can't  make  a 
sandal." 

"I  told  you,  be  frank." 

"All  right.  My  business  isn't  much."  He  shrugged 
his  shoulders.  "If  you  want  me  to,  I'll  tell  you. 
I  '11  tell  you  the  whole  truth.  On  Podyacheskaya  Street 
we  got  two  hundred  thousand.  From  the  Ivhopilovsky 
expropriation,  twenty-five  thousand.  That  makes  a  total 
of  two  hundred  and  twenty-five  thousand.  We  have 
spent  about  forty  thousand  for  paper,  revolvers,  bombs, 
horses  and  so  forth.     Isn't  that  so?     I  counted — " 

Volodya  flushed.  He  was  beginning  to  understand 
what  the  Fly  was  after.  The  Fly,  his  head  down,  his 
hands  clasped  behind  his  back,  tapped  the  ground  slowly 
with  the  end  of  his  boot.    Volodya  looked,  at  him  again. 

"You  counted?" 

"Exactly.  We  counted.  Vladimir  Ivanovich,  let  me 
ask  you,  have  I  not  worked  along  with  the  rest  ? ' ' 

"What?" 

"Have  I  not  been  working,  that  is,  robbing,  along 
with  the  rest?  Was  I  on  Podyacheskaya  Street  or 
not?" 

"Well?" 

"Well,  if  you  please — you  owe  me  something." 

He  had  no  chance  to  go  on.  Volodya,  scarlet  with 
rage,  teeth  clenched,  not  knowing  what  he  was  doing, 
with  his  head  whirling  so  that  he  felt  he  was  about  to 
drop,  made  a  wide  sweep  with  his  arm,  seized  the  Fly 


What  Never  Happened  277 

by  the  collar,  and  began  to  shake  him  like  a  blade  of 
grass.  He  saw  the  Fly  turn  blue  in  the  face,  and  his 
wicked  narrow  eyes  begin  to  bum.  Choking  with  anger 
and  shaking  the  Fly  with  all  his  might,  Volodya  kept 
repeating  hoarsely: 

''What?  What?  What?  How  dare  you?  How 
dare  you?" 

The  Fly,  his  face  distorted  with  fury,  braced  himself 
with  his  feet  on  the  ground  and  twisted  Volodya 's  wrist. 

"Let  me  go,  Vladimir  Ivanovich!" 

But  even  had  he  wanted  to,  Volodya  could  not  have 
let  him  go.  Forgetting  himself,  and  the  Fly,  and  the 
squad,  and  terror,  he  let  loose  upon  him  all  his  doubts, 
all  his  burdensome  thoughts,  all  the  anxiety  and  un- 
certainty of  the  last  days.     The  Fly  repeated  quietly, 

"Let  me  go,  Vladimir  Ivanovich." 

When  Volodya  finally  stepped  aside,  the  Fly,  smooth- 
ing his  wrinkled  coat  and  looking  away,  said  with  a 
wicked  smile: 

"As  you  please,  Vladimir  Ivanovich," 

"I  know — "  Volodya  roared,  still  crimson  in  the  face 
and  breathing  heavily.  "And  get  out  of  here!  You 
hear?" 

"Yes,  sir,  I  hear.  But  how  do  you  mean  it?  A  wet 
man  is  not  afraid  of  rain,  nor  a  naked  one  of  robbers. 
Make  no  mistake — " 

"What  mistake,  in  the  devil's  name?" 

"Oh,  well,  it's  easy  to  wrong  me,  easy,  Vladimir 
Ivanovich.  But  who  will  pay  for  the  wrongs?  Of 
course,  we're  small  people." 

"Quit  your  nonsense." 

"All  right.     Good  luck  to  you.     Good-bye." 

The  Fly  raised  his  cap  and  walked  away  with  the  same 


278  What  Never  Happened 

bold  stride,  as  though  nothing  had  happened.  Volodya 
dropped  wearily  on  to  a  bench.  He  followed  him  for 
a  distance  with  his  eyes.  The  tops  of  the  fir  trees 
rustled,  and  the  rain  began  to  fall  faster. 

* '  He  '11  sell  us  out, ' '  Volodya  suddenly  thought.  * '  By 
God,  he'll  sell  us  out."  He  jumped  up,  ran  after  the 
Fly,  and  seized  him  by  the  shoulder: 

"Hey,  Fly,  I'll  kill  you!" 

"What?" 

"Not  what,  but  I'll  kill  you!" 

"As  you  please." 

* '  Shut  up !    You  can 't  trifle  with  me,  you  know ! ' ' 

"I'm  not  trifling,  Vladimir  Ivanovich,"  the  Fly  an- 
swered slowly  and  harshly.  "What  do  you  mean? 
Why  trifle?" 

Raising  his  cap  again,  he  turned  into  a  side  path  and 
disappeared  behind  the  wet  shrubbery. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

VOLODYA  lived  on  Srietenka  Street  in  a  fur- 
nished rooming-house  named  Rome.  On  Sun- 
day, the  twentieth  of  October,  he  left  the 
house  in  the  morning  and  came  out  on  the  Trubnaya 
Plaza.  He  was  going  to  Tverskaya  Street  to  keep  an 
appointment  with  Freze.  Instead  of  crossing  the  park 
he  passed  through  the  Neglinny  Alley  into  Petrovka 
Street,  and  halted  at  Datziaro  Street.  For  the  last  few 
days  he  had  been  aware  of  something  strange,  something 
unusually  foreboding,  but  he  tried  not  to  think  of  it.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  somebody  was  watching  him,  that 
somebody's  penetrating  eyes  were  continually  scrutiniz- 
ing his  shoulders,  hands,  moustache  and  beard,  that  some 
one  was  cunningly  setting  a  trap  for  him.  On  Friday  he 
saw  a  tall  red-haired  man  in  Filippov's  cafe.  The  man, 
who  had  not  removed  his  hat,  or  coat,  was  eating  hur- 
riedly at  the  buffet,  stealing  glances  about  the  room,  as 
he  did  so.  He  wore  a  check  coat  of  English  cut.  In  the 
evening  Volodya  met  him  again  on  Tverskaya  Street 
and  on  Saturday  he  saw  him  on  Sofiyka  Street,  near  a 
shoemaker's  window.  The  man  was  in  the  company  of 
a  youngster  with  a  face  swollen  with  drinking.  Now, 
as  Volodya  stood  near  Datziaro  Street,  he  looked  about 
for  the  two  men,  sure  that  they  were  watching  him.  He 
did  not  see  them  on  Petrovka  Street,  but  as  he  looked 
over  the  Kuznetzky  Bridge,  near  the  Dzhamgarovsky 
Passage,  he  noticed  the  red  beard  of  the  one  and  the 
black  cap  set  far  back  on  the  head  of  the  other. 

279 


280  What  Never  Happened 

The  assassination  was  to  take  place  on  the  following 
day.  Volodya  could  not  forget  about  it  for  a  moment. 
The  insignificant  cares,  labours,  and  affairs,  the  dissatis- 
faction with  his  men,  his  sense  of  isolation,  and  even  the 
oppressive  talk  with  the  Fly  had  not  lessened  the  unusual 
feeling  of  anxiety  that  came  before  a  contemplated 
assassination,  and  here  on  Kuznetzky  Street,  though 
aware  of  being  followed,  he  gave  no  thought  to  spies  and 
prison,  but  to  the  governor.  He  did  not  believe  in  a 
possible  arrest.  He  was  accustomed  to  being  out  of 
danger.  He  was  accustomed  to  feel  that  his  will  was 
law,  and  he  did  not  doubt  for  a  moment  that  the  assas- 
sination would  be  accomplished.  He  walked  slowly 
away  from  the  shop-window.  The  day  was  cold,  but 
sunny,  the  sky  blue.  Wheels  were  noisily  rumbling  by, 
the  streets  were  filled  with  talking  crowds,  and  the  bells 
of  the  Church  of  the  Holy  Mother  were  ringing  for 
the  noon  prayer.  In  the  Furkassov  Alley  Volodya 
heard  hurrying  steps  behind  him.  He  looked  back.  A 
police  inspector  of  imposing  figure  and  with  white  gloves 
was  running  toward  him,  one  hand  outstretched,  the 
other  on  his  sword.  The  inspector  looked  at  him  with 
hostile,  terrified  eyes.  On  the  other  side  of  the  street, 
at  the  door  of  a  restaurant,  Volodya  saw  the  familiar 
red-bearded  man  whom  he  had  seen  at  Filippov's  cafe, 
and  four  others  with  him,  spies,  Volodya  thought. 
When  he  saw  the  inspector's  stern  face,  he  realized  he 
was  about  to  be  arrested.  But  just  as  before  in 
Podyacheskaya  Street,  he  did  not  believe  that  death  was 
at  hand.  He  did  not  believe  that  on  the  eve  of  the  as- 
sassination he  would  be  detained  here  near  Lubianka 
Street  by  unknown  persons,  and  that  these  persons  had 
the  right  to  convict  and  hang  him.     He  felt  so  strong 


What  Never  Happened  281 

and  healthy,  the  sun  was  shining  so  brilliantly,  the  street 
was  so  noisy,  that  the  thought  of  death  seemed  sense- 
less, unreal,  cowardly  and  cruel.  But  suddenly  the  red- 
bearded  detective  nodded  to  him.  Volodya  came  to  him- 
self, grasped  the  loaded  revolver  in  his  pocket,  and  de- 
termined swiftly  on  his  course  of  action.  "With  his  big 
head  down  and  his  right  hand  in  his  pocket,  he  turned 
upon  the  stout  inspector  with  a  defiant,  threatening  look. 

The  inspector  stopped  about  ten  yards  away,  lowered 
his  eyes,  and  said  irresolutely,  almost  quietly: 

*'Mr.  Gliebov,  the  mayor  would  like  to  see  you." 

Volodya  glanced  at  him  and  frowned.  The  inspector 
was  pale  and  his  chin  was  trembling.  "Without  hesitat- 
ing or  even  thinking  Volodya  raised  his  revolver  delib- 
erately, took  two  shots  at  close  range,  turned  around, 
and  ran  towards  Lubianka  Street.  He  heard  excited 
shouts,  the  tramp  of  feet,  and  involuntarily,  conscious  of 
nothing  except  that  he  was  being  overtaken,  yet  even  so 
not  fully  aware  of  his  danger,  he  ran  into  the  first 
garden  he  saw.  He  passed  the  dark  gates  without  see- 
iny  anybody,  crossed  a  long,  vacant  yard  overgrown 
with  grass,  and  made  for  a  pile  of  lumber  that  he  no- 
ticed in  the  corner  near  a  whitewashed  wall.  There  he 
looked  around.  About  ten  yards  away  a  red  spy  with 
a  drunken  face  was  following  him,  breathing  heavily. 
Volodya  had  a  revolver  in  his  hand,  and  pulled  the  trig- 
ger, concealing  the  motion.  He  mounted  the  lumber 
pile,  jumped  down  on  the  other  side  between  the  lumber 
and  the  wall,  and  set  himself  with  his  back  to  the  wall. 

"Oh,  you'll  get  your  round  of  nuts,"  Volodya 
smiled  to  himself  and  made  an  opening. 

But  when  he  touched  the  cold  wood  and  felt  the  damp, 
slippery  moss,  a  sharp  sickening  sensation  seized  him. 


282  What  Never  Happened 

The  sensation  was  so  strong  that  he  involuntarily  let  the 
hand  that  held  the  revolver  drop  and  set  his  back  against 
the  wall  again,  standing  with  his  long  legs  apart  and 
staring  at  the  lumber  with  blank,  unseeing  ejes.  lie 
knew  he  would  never  come  out  of  that  place  again — 
from  behind  that  pile  of  lumber,  from  before  that  white- 
washed wall.  It  was  the  end — irresistible,  inglorious 
death.  For  a  moment  he  felt  a  slight  shiver  go  through 
him,  and  his  heart  was  suddenly  chilled.  But  he  felt 
no  terror — not  even  regret.  Olga,  the  squad,  expropria- 
tion, the  Fly,  Freze,  terror — all  seemed  like  a  deceitful 
dream — as  though  all  that  was  happening  now — the 
frightened  inspector,  the  heavens  high  above,  the  hot 
revolver,  the  trap  he  was  caught  in — was  the  treach- 
erous, unavoidable  thing  that  he  had  been  await- 
ing every  day;  as  though  there  had  been  no  life  before, 
and  life  had  just  begun  that  day,  there  on  Lubianka 
Street,  on  that  vacant  grass-covered  plot;  as  though  he, 
Vladimir  Gliebov,  Volodya,  had  been  born  for  this  sin- 
gle purpose — to  hide  like  a  hunted  beast  behind  the 
lumber  and  to  die  with  a  revolver  in  his  hand.  With 
only  a  few  hours  to  live  and  no  hope  of  escape,  his  one 
thought  was  to  exact  the  highest  price  possible  for  his 
life. 

"It's  all  the  same,"  he  repeated  aloud,  but  did  not 
hear  his  own  voice.  "But  they'll  get  their  round  of 
nuts."  The  policemen  ran  in  through  the  gate.  Vol- 
odya selected  a  young  one,  with  a  vacuous  face.  To 
save  his  cartridges,  he  made  sure  of  him  and  pulled  the 
trigger  when  the  policeman  was  only  about  fifteen  yards 
away.  As  he  shot,  he  was  surprised  to  notice  that  his 
hand  trembled. 

The    policeman    turned    back.    Volodya,    his    face 


What  Never  Happened  283 

flushed,  his  damp  hair  clinging  to  his  forehead,  looked 
through  the  .opening.  Near  him  lay  the  spy  who  had 
been  pursuing  him.  He  wore  a  grey  jacket,  and  lay  face 
downward,  his  feet  toward  the  lumber.  Volodya  noted 
his  dirty  boots  with  their  worn  soles.  His  round,  pim- 
pled, swollen  face  looked  alive,  and  his  ragged  mous- 
taches stirred  slightly.  About  forty  yards  away  from 
him,  almost  at  the  gate,  lay  the  captain  of  gendarmes 
like  a  child.  The  buttons  on  his  coat  sparkled  in  the 
sunlight.  The  third  man,  the  policeman  who  had  just 
been  hit,  was  mortally  wounded.  He  was  sitting  on  the 
grass,  his  knees  drawn  up  under  him,  clutching  at  his 
heart.    A  red  stream  of  blood  issued  from  his  mouth. 

All  became  still  at  the  gate.  Volodya  looked  up  at 
the  wall  again,  but  without  hope.  It  was  smooth,  with- 
out a  single  projection,  and  about  forty  feet  in  height. 
He  sat  on  the  ground  behind  the  lumber.  While  he  was 
shooting,  a  splinter  of  wood  had  sunk  deep  into  his  hand, 
and  it  hurt  him.  He  sat  motionless,  without  thinking, 
sure  there  was  no  way  of  escape.  Wet  chips  of  wood 
were  scattered  over  the  ground.  He  picked  out  a  long 
sharp  piece,  covered  with  dried  tar,  and  waved  it  in  the 
air.  He  recalled  his  boyhood — a  big  vacant  lot  like  this 
one,  a  blue  sky  like  the  one  overhead,  piles  of  lumber 
like  those  in  front  of  him,  and  he,  a  lively  boy,  playing 
a  rude  game  of  tennis.  "It's  fine  to  play  tennis,"  he 
thought  with  a  smile,  and  waved  the  piece  of  wood  again. 
He  felt  uncomfortable  in  his  cramped  position  on  the 
ground  wet  with  rain.  He  rose  slowly,  and  with  bent 
head  began  to  creep  along  the  wall.  He  did  not  know 
why  he  was  doing  it.*  He  saw  a  path  of  clay,  a  strip  of 
sky  above  him,  and  the  damp,  moss-covered  lumber 
hemming  him  in.    He  was  all  alone  now,  he  thought,  the 


284  Wliat  Never  Happened 

police  must  have  gone,  and  they  would  not  be  able  to 
find  him.  But  suddenly  shots  rang  out ;  bullets  whizzed 
by  him. 

"There's  no  getting  away,"  Volodya  thought. 
"Well,  all  right."  He  straightened  up  suddenly,  and 
with  head  high,  shoulders  erect  and  chest  expanded  he 
looked  quietly,  almost  indifferently,  at  the  soldiers.  By 
their  caps  he  recognized  them  to  be  grenadiers.  He 
took  aim  and  began  to  shoot,  and  kept  on  shooting,  load- 
ing his  revolver  after  each  shot  and  aiming  carefully. 

He  could  not  tell  how  long  it  lasted.  He  felt  a  sharp 
blow  on  his  shoulder,  like  the  cracking  of  a  whip.  He 
did  not  realize  he  was  wounded  until  his  shirt  grew  wet 
and  the  blood  showed  through  on  his  coat.  He  felt  no 
pain,  and  continued  his  desperate  shooting,  standing  in 
full  view  of  the  soldiers.  Suddenly  the  shooting  ceased. 
Volodya,  black  with  smoke,  his  coat  torn,  reached  for  his 
cartridges.  He  had  only  five  left.  His  heart  grew  cold 
within  him,  and  he  realized  with  merciless  clearness 
that  his  end  was  a  matter  of  minutes.  And  suddenly 
he  was  seized  by  a  blind  frenzy  of  rage  and  despair. 

"They'll  hang  me?  Me?  Vladimir  Gliebov?  Hang 
me?  They?  These  people?"  he  thought  furiously. 
Then  he  remembered  his  band  and  the  projected  as- 
sassination. "Then  the  governor  will  not  die!  Then 
the  band  will  perish ! ' '  His  face  flamed,  and  his  staring 
eyes  filled  with  blood.  As  through  a  mist  he  saw  a  row 
of  soldiers  running  towards  him.  But  he  gave  them  no 
chance  to  reach  him.  Drawn  up  to  his  full  enormous 
height,  his  curly  black  hair  uncovered,  his  face  distorted 
with  rage,  his  smoking  revolver  in  his  hand,  he  turned 
swiftly  upon  them.  He  had  no  hope  of  escape,  no  hope 
that  his  life  would  be  spared,  and  he  did  not  understand 


What  Never  Happened  285 

why  he  walked  straight  towards  them.  He  was  merely 
obeying  some  hidden  impulse,  the  last  effort  of  a  strong, 
healthy  body,  which  could  not  become  reconciled  to 
death. 

Volodya  was  so  immense  and  so  terrifying  in  appear- 
ance, his  eyes  shone  with  such  wild  determination,  his 
revolver  looked  so  threatening,  that  the  soldiers  hesi- 
tated. But  one  recruit,  a  small  fellow  with  frightened 
eyes,  winced,  and  shot  without  even  aiming.  A  yellow 
flame  flared  out.  Volodya  made  one  more  irresolute 
step.  His  knees  bent  under  him.  Trjnng  to  retain  his 
balance,  he  stretched  out  his  left  hand,  then  fell  heavily 
upon  the  grass.  He  was  immediately  surrounded  by 
soldiers.  The  red-bearded  detective  in  the  English  coat 
went  over  to  him,  looked  at  him,  and  poked  him  in  the 
side  curiously  with  the  toe  of  his  boot. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

FREZE  learned  of  Volodya's  death  the  same  day. 
After  waiting  for  him  two  hours  on  Tverskaya 
Street,  he  went  in  the  evening  to  the  ' '  emergency 
quarters,"  the  Port  Arthur  saloon.  In  the  smoke- 
laden  place,  clerks  were  drinking  and  workmen  in  shawls 
and  boots  were  brawling  and  cursing  in  drunken  voices, 
while  a  phonograph  played  noisily.  At  a  nearby  table 
a  sedate  merchant  breathing  heavily  and  wiping  his  bald 
head  with  a  napkin,  was  talking  to  a  young  man. 

*'0h,  oh,  oh !  Our  sins !  There  are  too  many  of  them 
now.  God  and  the  Holy  Mother  spare  us.  There's  no 
living  with  them  now.  Shouting  liberty,  liberty !  And 
what's  the  use  of  it?  What's  all  the  row  about  any- 
way? "What's  going  on?  One  can't  understand. 
Cossacks  surrounded  him.  But  the  general  took  pity 
on  him.  'Surrender,'  he  says,  'or  you'll  perish  without 
a  confession.'    And  what  do  you  think?" 

''W— well?" 

"Well — it's  a  wonder  how  desperate  people  can  be. 
Says  he  to  the  general,  'For  the  time  being  God  has 
patience  with  my  sins.  Take  that!'  And  crack! 
Killed  him  on  the  spot." 

"The  general?" 

"That's  what  I  said.  Well,  they  got  to  thinking  what 
to  do  next.  They  thought  and  thought,  my  dear  fellow, 
and  decided  a  careful  horse  is  safe  from  beasts.  So 
they  brought  a  cannon.    Began  to  fire  away  at  him. 

286 


What  Never  Happened  287 

Shot  him  to  pieces.  And  how  strong  he  was!  Fell  to 
the  ground,  all  in  blood,  life  almost  gone,  and  he  was 
still  waving  his  arms,  '  Hurrah  for  liberty ! '  " 

''God  in  heaven!     A  Jew?" 

"No — Jew !  One  of  our  own  people,  they  say,  a  Mus- 
covite, the  son  of  a  merchant.  His  name,  they  say,  was 
Volodin,"  the  merchant  added  softly,  and  sighed. 

Freze  was  startled. 

"About  whom  are  they  talking?  It's  impossible. 
It's  a  mistake,"  he  thought,  growing  pale.  He  wanted 
to  break  in,  to  get  the  details,  but  for  reasons  of  secrecy 
he  said  nothing.  Summoning  the  waiter,  he  paid  his 
bill  and  left.  A  light,  chill  rain  was  falling;  it  was 
cold  and  dark;  here  and  there  a  light  glimmered.  He 
could  not  believe  that  Volodya  had  not  kept  the  ap- 
pointment. "Nonsense!  What  a  silly  conversation!" 
Freze  waved  his  hand,  and  not  knowing  where  to  go,  he 
turned  to  the  Nikitsky  Boulevard.  "But  how  about  the 
governor?  Tomorrow  at  ten  o'clock — "  he  thought, 
and  stopped  immediately.  A  ragged  boy  in  a  torn  cap 
ran  towards  him  with  a  bundle  of  evening  newspapers. 

"Mister!  Buy  a  paper.  Very  interesting.  Death 
of  the  murderer  Gliebov!" 

Freze  unfolded  the  damp  sheet  near  a  street-lamp 
and  glanced  through  it  hurriedly,  trembling  with  excite- 
ment. For  several  minutes  he  remained  standing  there 
with  the  paper  in  his  hands.  He  considered  himself  a 
quiet  and  resolute  man.  He  was  the  one  who  filled  the 
bombs  for  the  band.  He  was  the  one  who  had  saved 
all  the  bags  with  money  on  Podyacheskaya  Street.  He 
had  planned  the  Kiev  assassination.  He  had  been  Vol- 
odya's  right  hand.  He  was  proud  of  his  cold-blooded- 
ness, of  his  imperturbable  strength.    But  there,  in  the 


288  Wliat  Never  Happened 

rain,  near  the  wet  lamp-post,  he  felt  his  courage  desert- 
ing him.  He  could  not  believe  that  Volodya  had  been 
killed,  and  the  band  was  orphaned.  He  could  not  be- 
lieve that  terror  was  crushed.  He  could  not  believe  that 
he,  Herman  Freze,  was  left  alone,  without  any  one  to 
turn  to  for  help  and  advice.  His  tall  figure,  usually 
erect,  was  so  bent  now  that  he  seemed  to  have  lost  several 
inches  in  height  and  he  dragged  his  feet  like  an  old  man, 
as  he  slowly  made  his  way  towards  Arbata  Street.  On 
Arbata  Street  many  lights  were  burning. 

"Hey,  hey!  Look  out!  Watch  out  for  yourself  1'^ 
suddenly  came  a  loud  warning,  and  he  was  spattered 
with  mud  as  a  sleek  horse  dashed  by.  He  wiped  the 
mud  off  carefully  with  his  sleeve ;  and  the  motion  sud- 
denly brought  him  to  himself. 

"I  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  myself.  If  Volodya  is 
killed,  then  the  assassination  won't  take  place.  If  he  is 
killed,  then  the  band  is  being  spied  upon,  is  being  fol- 
lowed. Then  I  must  warn  all  of  them.  I  must  save 
them." 

He  turned  hurriedly  into  Tverskaya  Street,  where 
Olga  lived  in  the  hotel  The  Prince's  Estate.  As  he 
mounted  the  stairs  and  passed  the  majestic  porter  and 
the  officious  bell-boys,  he  felt  as  if  he  were  being  fol- 
lowed by  searching  glances.  It  seemed  to  him  that  at 
the  brilliantly  illuminated  entrance  and  at  the  glass 
doors  spies  were  watching  him,  and  that  there  was  an 
unusual  number  of  policemen  in  the  street  outside. 

"Can  it  possibly  be  that  Olga  has  been  arrested?"  he 
asked  himself,  putting  his  hand  into  his  pocket  and 
carefully  raising  the  trigger  of  his  revolver.  "All  the 
same,  I  must  warn  her." 

He  knocked  at  the  door. 


What  Never  Happened  289 

"Come  in." 

On  recognizing  Olga's  voice,  Freze  gave  a  sign  of  re- 
lief. Without  taking  off  his  coat,  he  seated  himself 
at  the  table.  He  began  to  speak,  but  Olga  stopped  him. 
By  the  fact  that  he  had  disregarded  the  underground 
rules  and  had  come  to  her  in  the  hotel,  by  his  gloomy 
silence,  Olga  perceived  that  something  terrible  had  hap- 
pened, something  impossible  to  believe,  something  that 
had  never  happened  before.  Pressing  her  white  fingers 
to  her  breast  and  rising  slowly  from  her  chair,  she  said 
in  a  faint,  piteous,  pleading  voice : 

"Volodya?" 

Freze  handed  her  the  newspaper. 

"I  must  tell  you,  Olga  Vasilyevna,  very  sad  news." 

She  cast  a  frightened  look  at  his  German  face,  which 
looked  as  if  it  were  cut  out  of  stone.  Freze  saw  her 
lips  tremble.  She  read  the  report  through,  dropped  the 
paper,  and  still  pressing  her  fingers  to  her  breast,  sud- 
denly swayed  and  caught  at  the  knob  to  steady  herself, 
but  fell  helplessly  into  a  chair.  Somewhere  far  away, 
at  the  other  end  of  the  corridor,  a  piano  began  to  play 
a  noisy  tune. 

Freze  got  up  and  paced  the  room. 

"Look  here,  Olga  Vasilyevna.  You're  being  spied 
upon.  I  noticed  spies  on  the  street.  You  must  think 
how  to  get  away.  Do  you  hear  me,  Olga  Vasilyevna? 
Listen  to  me.  If  you  don't  see  the  danger,  I  must  point 
it  out  to  you.  Yes,  I  must.  You  must  think  of  the  band. 
You  have  seven  kilograms  of  dynamite  and  bombs. 
If  you're  arrested,  they  will  be  seized  too.  Let  me  take 
them  with  me." 

Olga  did  not  understand  what  he  was  saying.  She 
heard  his  firm  even  voice.    It  seemed  to  her  that  some 


290  Wliat  Never  Happened 

black,  hairy-winged  insect  had  entered  the  room  and 
was  buzzing,  buzzing  continually.  "With  an  effort  she 
half  opened  her  eyes.  Freze  was  pacing  the  room.  lie 
was  tall  and  slender  and  looked  like  a  cane  in  his  short 
black  coat. 

"I  can't  understand  you.    "What  is  it?" 

*'I  say,  let  me  have  the  dynamite.  You're  respon- 
sible for  it.  I'll  take  it  to  a  safe  place.  And  you — ^ 
please  leave  at  once.     Yes,  I  say  at  once." 

It  now  seemed  to  her  that  it  was  not  Freze.  It  was  a 
narrow,  sharp,  metallic  pendulum,  swaying  to  and  fro. 
It  swayed  to  the  right  and  then  slowly,  firmly,  evenly, 
to  the  left.    Eight  and  left. 

**I  will  not  go." 

"How  can  you  talk  that  way?  You  have  no  right  to 
speak  like  that.  Business  first  of  all.  If  you're  being 
spied  upon,  you'll  be  arrested.  You'll  be  arrested  to- 
night, possibly  in  an  hour.  You  must  do  as  I  tell  you. 
You  must  give  up  the  dynamite  and  leave." 

She  felt  her  head  spinning  round. 

''I  won't  go." 

"I  think,  Olga  Vasilyevna — " 

"You  heard  me.     I  won't  go!" 

She  gathered  all  her  strength  and  looked  straight  into 
his  eyes,  her  own  full  of  hatred. 

"Listen,  Freze,  I  thank  you  for  your  kindness.  But 
you  know,  you  know — darling,  I  beg  you,  leave  me 
alone. ' ' 

Freze  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  frowned.  Her  be- 
haviour filled  him  with  indignation.  The  band  was  in 
danger,  the  assassination  would  not  take  place,  and  she 
was  thinking  of  herself,  of  "Volodya,  of  her  own  woman 's 


What  Never  Happened  291 

sorrow.  He  looked  into  her  round  face  that  had  sud- 
denly darkened. 

"I  understand,  Olga  Vasilyevna.  If  you  think  I 
don't  understand,  you're  mistaken.  But  I  insist,  leave 
this  place  immediately.  If  you  don 't  go,  you  will  surely 
be  arrested." 

Again  that  troublesome  insect  was  buzzing  again, 
again  the  pendulum  was  swinging  evenly  to  and  fro. 
Olga  felt  she  could  not  control  herself  and  would  burst 
into  tears.  She  could  not  talk  or  listen  to  any  one,  no 
words  could  touch  her.  In  the  weak,  shrill  voice  with 
which  she  had  asked  about  Volodya,  she  cried : 

''Go  away,  go  away,  go  away!" 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  Freze  stood  by 
without  knowing  what  to  do  or  how  to  make  her  leave 
the  place.  He  gave  no  thought  to  himself.  He  knew 
he  was  being  spied  upon,  too,  and  might  be  arrested. 
But  he  had  long  before  made  up  his  mind  that  some  day 
he  would  hang,  and  he  felt  no  fear. 

"My  duty  is  to  save  Olga,"  he  thought.  "Yes,  it  is 
my  duty  as  a  member  of  the  band. ' ' 

"Olga  Vasilyevna." 

"Are  you  still  here?" 

''Urn  Gottes  willen,"  Freze  began  excitedly  in  Ger- 
man.    "Olga  Vasilyevna — " 

As  he  descended  the  stairs,  gloomily,  angry  with  Olga 
and  with  himself,  he  again  noticed  the  presence  of  the 
spies.  In  the  street  outside  the  entrance  were  a  police- 
man and  a  Cossack  officer.  The  policeman  looked  at 
Freze  suspiciously.  Along  the  wet  sidewalk  a  row  of 
lamps  cast  a  dim  light.  The  Red  Plaza  was  deserted. 
Through  the  darkness  loomed  the  statue  of  Vasily  Bla- 


292  What  Never  Happened 

zheny.  Freze  passed  into  the  Kremlin  and  stopped  at 
the  statue  of  Aleksandr  IL  He  grasped  the  iron  chain, 
pressed  his  cheek  against  the  cold  statue,  and  looked 
long  upon  sleeping  Moscow  spread  out  below.  The  statue 
of  the  Czar  rose  majestically  above  him.  In  the  distance 
wheels  were  rumbling.  Around  him  all  was  quiet,  and 
the  rain  fell  continuously.  The  clock  on  the  Tainitzka 
Tower  struck  twelve.  Freze  trembled.  He  walked  back 
to  Tverskaya  Street,  his  shoulders  stooping  and  his  feet 
dragging  on  the  pavement.  The  entrance  to  the  hotel 
was  now  deserted. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

WHEN  the  door  closed  behind  Freze,  and  Olga 
was  left  alone,  she  burst  into  a  shrill  laugh- 
ing and  sobbing.  Her  face  quivered,  her 
teeth  chattered,  her  head  beat  against  the  back  of  her 
chair. 

"And  I  did — did — believe  him — that  Volodya  had 
been  killed — that  Volodya  had  been  killed,"  she  kept  re- 
peating through  her  laughter.  The  idea  that  Volodya 
had  been  shot,  that  he  was  no  longer  alive,  that  his  dead 
body  lay  in  the  police-station,  seemed  so  absurd,  so  im- 
probable, so  pitiless,  that  she  felt  like  bringing  poor 
unfortunate  Freze  back  and  caressing  and  reassuring 
him.  She  had  known  that  sooner  or  later  Volodya  would 
hang,  and  had  often  tried  to  imagine  his  death.  But 
she  had  always  consoled  herself  with  the  thought  that  she 
would  die  along  with  him.  But  now  that  Volodya  was 
killed,  and  the  long-expected  had  taken  place,  her  calm 
forsook  her.  She  crouched  in  the  chair,  her  arms  thrown 
across  the  back,  and  her  whole  body  shaking  with  her 
hysterical  laughter.  She  cherished  a  secret  hope  that 
Volodya  might  hear  her,  and  kept  repeating  the  beloved 
name: 

"Volodya!" 

Her  laughter  was  so  pitiful,  so  cruel,  that  it  filled  her 
with  terror.  "Who  is  laughing?  Why?"  she  whis- 
pered, stifling  her  sobs  and  trying  in  vain  to  control  the 
chattering  of  her  teeth.     Her  body  writhed  as  if  in  pain. 

293 


294  What  Never  Happened 

She  bent  down.  On  the  dusty  floor  lay  the  newspaper. 
She  unrolled  it  carefully.  At  the  top  she  saw  the  head- 
line in  big  letters,  "Death  of  the  murderer  Gliebov." 
She  got  control  of  herself  and  read  the  whole  article 
through  carefully  and  with  dry  eyes.  There  could  be  no 
doubt.  Volodya  had  been  shot  dead,  today,  Sunday, 
the  twentieth  of  October,  in  Lubianka  Street,  in  the  yard 
of  the  lumber  merchant,  Pizhov.  She  laid  the  news- 
paper down  on  the  table,  smoothed  out  the  wrinkled 
page  and  rose.  Behind  a  yellow  partition  stood  her 
bed,  and  under  the  bed  a  trunk  filled  with  dynamite. 
Olga  recalled  how  Volodya  had  brought  her  the  first 
bombs.  She  recalled  his  pock-marked,  bearded,  smiling 
face,  his  big  strong  hands,  his  jacket  and  silver  watch- 
chain  ;  his  voice,  so  slow  and  commanding,  with  its  sing- 
song Moscow  accent;  the  marriage  ring  he  had  given 
her;  his  firm,  heavy  step.  Her  cheeks  flushed,  and  she 
felt  bitterly  ashamed.  She  saw  herself  at  Volodya 's 
side  in  her  secret  lodging,  when  he  had  returned  ex- 
hausted and  haunted  by  doubts  from  the  Moscow  bar- 
ricades. She  heard  her  own  meaningless  words,  to 
which  he  had  listened  condescendingly.  "One  must  be 
strong.  To  the  strong  all  is  permissible.  One  must 
not  fear.  The  abyss  of  the  low  and  the  abyss  of  the 
high.  Did  I  say  that?  Did  I  dare  to  speak  to  him  of 
strength  and  boldness,  of  God  knows  what  abysses?" 

She  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  her  hands  hang- 
ing at  her  side,  her  eyes  sore  with  weeping,  and  gazed 
at  the  trunk.  It  was  of  black  leather,  half -concealed  by 
a  torn  linen  cover. 

"What  good  are  all  these  bombs  now?"  she  asked  her- 
self despairingly,  and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands, 
and  threw  herself  upon  the  bed.    At  the  far  end  of  the 


What  Never  Happened  295 

corridor  some  one  was  playing  the  piano.  A  sweet  tenor 
voice  was  singing  off-pitch  a  little  French  romance: 

^'Si  tu  m'aimais,  Si  Vonibre  de  ma  vie-e — "  Olga 
repeated  the  hackneyed  words  with  dry  lips  and  did  not 
recognize  her  own  voice.  She  felt  a  sudden  pain  shoot 
through  her  whole  body.  She  thrust  her  head  into  the 
pillows.  It  seemed  that  her  life  had  been  split  into  two 
unequal  parts,  and  there  was  nothing  ahead  of  her. 

''This  is  a  dream.  No,  not  a  dream.  Ill  wake  up," 
she  kept  repeating,  biting  her  lips  until  they  bled.  At 
that  moment  she  thought  she  heard  the  door  squeak  and 
steps  on  the  carpet. 

**Can  Volodya  be  coming?  Yes,  of  course  it's  Yol- 
odya.     He'll  come.    How  could  he  fail  to  come?" 

She  sat  up  in  bed.  The  room  was  empty.  The  bluish 
electric  bulb  cast  a  cold  light  shimmering  through  the 
muslin  partition.  The  room  smelled  of  dynamite  and 
drugs.  Though  Olga  could  see  there  was  no  one  in  the 
room,  and  though  she  knew  the  door  was  locked  and  Vol- 
odya lay  dead  in  the  station-house,  still  she  stretched 
out  her  arms  and  threw  her  head  back  and  began  to 
whisper  swiftly  and  passionately: 

"Have  you  come?  Yes?  Tell  me.  You've  come, 
haven't  you?  Why  don't  you  speak?  Don't  torture 
me.  Say  something.  You  know  how  I  love  you.  Don't 
you  believe  in  my  love  ?  Don 't  you  ?  Don 't  you  believe 
me?  Do  you  love  me?  Look,  I'm  alone.  I'm  afraid. 
Volodya,  Volodya,  Volodya!" 

The  singing  in  the  hall  ceased ;  all  was  now  painfully 
still. 

She  suddenly  recalled  her  childhood.  Annunciation 
Day.  The  church-bells  ringing.  The  snow  melting. 
The  streams  murmuring  and  sparkling  in  the  sun.     She 


296  What  Never  Happened 

is  a  little  girl,  in  a  short  velvet  coat,  returning  from  the 
mid-day  service  with  her  father,  a  bent,  decrepit  old 
man.  She  is  holding  on  to  his  tobacco-stained  military 
coat.  She  feels  happy ;  the  blue,  blue  sky  is  shining,  her 
father  is  laughing  and  showing  his  toothless  gums;  she 
is  laughing  with  light-hearted  glee. 

''No,  it's  a  dream,  it's  a  dream.  Si  tu  m'aimais,  Si 
I'ombre  de  ma  vie-e — '^  Again  a  piercing  pain  stabbed 
her  body.  She  felt  like  shouting,  shouting,  with 
all  her  might,  with  all  the  strength  of  her  lungs,  so  that 
everybody  could  hear  her,  so  that  Volodya  could  hear 
her.  She  recalled  how  she  used  to  pray  when  she  was 
a  child.  The  dark  interior  of  a  church.  Candles  burn- 
ing.    The  odour  of  incense.     The  cherubic  Hymn. 

"To  pray!  God,  if  I  could  pray!  God,  teach  me 
how."  She  buried  her  face  in  the  pillows.  "It's  all 
the  same !     It 's  all  the  same ! ' ' 

Suddenly  she  was  seized  by  an  obscure  impulse.  She 
opened  her  eyes  and  let  her  feet  down  from  the  bed. 
Now  she  clearly  understood  what  Volodya 's  death 
meant.  Nobody  could  help  her.  Life  was  at  an  end. 
"What  had  happened  was  irreparable.  "Then  there  is 
no  need  of  living,"  she  whispered. 

Her  hair  was  dishevelled.  Unconsciously  she  began 
to  twist  it  into  a  knot.  She  did  not  finish  putting  it 
up,  but  went  over  to  the  dresser  with  hesitating  steps, 
not  sure  of  her  resolve,  still  hoping  for  some  miracle. 
Among  the  gloves  and  underwear  she  found  her  re- 
volver. She  took  it  out  and  examined  it  carefully.  It 
was  a  pocket-revolver,  a  small  one  that  Freze  had  bought 
for  her.  "If  you  are  in  doubt  of  its  working  prop- 
erly-" 

She   recalled   Freze 's   measured   words,    smiled   and 


What  Never  Happened  297 

pressed  the  trigger  irresolutely.  The  spring  snapped. 
At  the  same  moment  Olga  realized  that  she  had  a  pas- 
sionate desire  to  live.  Death  was  unnecessary,  un- 
wanted— hateful;  there  were  many  days  ahead  and  her 
horror  would  pass  away.  Feeling  a  chill  stealing  upon 
her,  her  breath  coming  hard,  she  laid  the  revolver  down 
on  the  table  quickly  as  if  in  fear  it  might  shoot  of  itself, 
and  unconsciously  looked  into  the  mirror.  She  saw  her 
tear-stained  face,  her  disordered  hair  and  her  plain 
black  dress. 

''Here  I  am.  And  Volodya  is  gone,"  she  said  aloud, 
and  stretched  her  hand  for  the  revolver  again.  "No,  I 
need  not — I  need  not  live."  Her  fingers  touched  the 
cold  steel.  "Volodya,  Yolodya,  Volodya!"  She 
pressed  the  revolver  to  her  breast,  but  immediately  let 
her  hand  fall  back  again. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  The  knock  was  loud 
and  bold. 

" Can  it  be  Freze ?  Oh,  my  God,  what  for?  Why  is 
Freze  here  again?" 

With  the  revolver  in  her  hand,  she  went  over  to  the 
door  reluctantly,  and  said  in  an  irritated  tone: 

"Who's  there?" 

"A  telegram,"  replied  the  voice  of  a  servant. 

*  *  A  telegram  ?     Deliver  it  tomorrow,  please. ' ' 

"No.  It  must  be  delivered  now.  Please  open  the 
door." 

There  was  a  tinkling  of  spurs,  and  Olga  heard  some 
one  say  angrily: 

"Don't  mind  her.  Break  the  door  in.  Open  tlie 
door,  miss." 

It  was  not  Freze,  of  course,  but  who  it  could  be,  or 
what  was  wanted,  Olga  could  not  imagine,  forgetting 


298  What  Never  Happened 

she  was  liable  to  arrest,  and  arrest  meant  the  scaffold 
and  death.  Like  a  child  treating  danger  with  light- 
hearted  contempt,  waving  irresistible  fate  aside,  afraid 
to  admit  there  was  no  way  out,  she  repeated  stubbornly : 

' '  Tomorrow. ' ' 

Again  the  spurs  tinkled,  and  another  commanding 
voice  said : 

' '  Madam,  in  the  name  of  the  law,  open  the  door.  It 's 
the  police." 

On  hearing  that,  Olga  at  last  realized  that  death  was 
before  her. 

''The  police?     Then  it's  the  end,"  she  thought. 

A  sharp  pity  for  herself  surged  up  in  her.  She  felt 
sorry  for  the  days  of  liberty  she  had  spent  with  Volodya, 
the  days  they  had  done  their  work  of  red  terror,  the 
great  and  holy  work.  And  as  if  it  had  happened  the 
day  before,  she  recalled  the  sunlit  Podyacheskaya  Street, 
Prokhor's  grey  racer,  the  bags  full  of  money,  serious- 
eyed  Freze,  the  horses  covered  with  blood,  and  Volodya, 
big,  angry-faced,  making  abrupt  gestures.  She  recalled 
how  cleverly  he  had  thrown  the  money  out  of  the  car- 
riage, and  how  she  had  put  it  away  in  their  buggy; 
how,  the  same  evening,  Volodya,  happy  and  jubilant, 
had  counted  the  spoils  in  her  room.  She  could  even 
hear  the  ring  of  the  silver  coins  and  see  the  gold  and  the 
bills. 

The  door  was  breaking  in.  It  began  to  give  under 
the  weight  of  heavy  shoulders.     Some  one  was  cursing: 

"Break  it!    Break  it!    Break  it!" 

Olga  stepped  away  from  the  door  towards  the  window. 
She  saw  the  yellow  muslin  partition,  the  bluish  electric 
bulb,  the  white  newspaper  on  the  green  table  with  the 
staring  headline,   ''Death  of  the  murderer   Gliebov." 


What  Never  Happened  299 

Olga  squeezed  into  the  narrow  space  between  the  table 
and  the  closet  with  its  mirror-doors.  She  no  longer 
thought  of  Volodya,  and  she  had  no  pity  for  herself. 
Tall  in  her  black  dress,  her  face  very  weary,  her  back 
against  the  wall,  she  looked  wide-eyed  and  unfalteringly 
at  the  door.  Then  she  half  closed  her  eyes,  knit  her  dark 
eyebrows,  held  her  breath,  raised  the  little  revolver,  and 
placed  the  muzzle  to  her  breast. 

"It's  all  the  same.  All — all  the  same — "  Her  pale 
lips  whispered  it  for  the  last  time.  Without  hesitating 
a  moment,  she  pulled  the  trigger.  The  air  filled  with 
grey  smoke. 

When  the  colonel  of  gendarmes  entered  the  room,  his 
sword  clanking,  and  the  officers  ran  in  after  him,  Olga, 
looking  as  if  she  were  alive,  lay  on  her  back,  her  head 
towards  the  window.  Her  eyes  were  closed,  her  hair 
dishevelled,  but  there  was  no  sign  of  blood.  The  re- 
volver was  on  the  floor,  its  muzzle  still  smoking. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

MISIIA'S  family  learned  of  his  death  about 
Christmas  time  through  belated  papers  from 
the  capital.  Nikolay  Stepanovich  locked 
himself  in  his  study,  and  stayed  there  without  eating 
or  sleeping  for  three  days.  Driver  Tikhon  went  to  the 
district  town  Zubkov  for  the  doctor,  but  Nikolay  Step- 
anovich got  angry,  scolded  Tikhon  and  Natasha,  and 
ordered  them  not  to  let  "the  fool  of  a  doctor"  cross  the 
threshold.  Natasha,  stifling  her  sobs,  kept  running  on 
tiptoe  from  her  father's  study  to  her  mother's  bedroom. 
Tatyana  Mikhailovna  cried  all  night  long,  and  in  her 
white  night-gown,  her  hair  in  braids,  kneeled  for  hours 
at  a  time  praying  before  the  ikons  with  their  burning 
candles.  She  was  growing  grey  and  old  and  feeble  in  a 
few  hours. 

The  life  of  the  house  was  disorganized.  The  maids 
Lukerya  and  Sasha  sat  in  their  room  yawning  and  doing 
nothing.  The  manager,  Aleksey  Antonovieh,  a  bald, 
stout,  bearded  fellow,  would  come,  take  off  his  cap,  ask 
in  whispers  about  the  health  of  the  family,  sigh  in  pity, 
cross  himself,  and  go  back  to  his  office,  trying  not  to 
make  any  noise  with  his  squeaking  boots.  Malanya 
Petrovna,  the  sharp-nosed  housekeeper  with  mouse-like 
eyes,  ran  about  in  her  swishing,  starched  skirt,  into  the 
maid's  room,  into  the  kitchen,  the  dining-room,  the  bed- 
room, sighing,  groaning,  whispering,  and  begging  Na- 
tasha to  take  pity  on  her  beauty  and  go  to  sleep.     On 

300 


What  Never  Happened  301 

the  fourth  day  came  the  pastor,  Father  Vasily,  a  good- 
looking  elderly  man  with  thick  red  hair,  and  with  him  the 
drunkard  deacon  Agafon.  They  filled  the  big  colon- 
naded reception  room  with  the  odour  of  incense,  and 
lighted  thin  waxen  candles.  Tatyana  Mikhailovna  wept 
and  beat  her  head  on  the  floor,  and  Nikolay  Stepauovich, 
straight  and  haggard  in  his  general's  uniform,  gazed  in- 
differently at  the  smoking  censer  and  the  deacon's  little 
beard.  After  that  rite,  life  entered  its  accustomed 
groove,  and  the  gloomy  days  went  on  in  slow  procession. 
But  now  Tatyana  Mikliailovna 's  back  was  bent,  and  Nik- 
olay Stepanovich  was  more  irritable  and  excitable  than 
ever.    And,  as  usual,  there  was  no  letter  from  Audrey. 

In  May,  when  the  lilies  of  the  valley  began  to  bloom 
and  the  violets  to  turn  blue,  and  the  fields  were  covered 
with  pale  green  oats  and  winter  grains,  their  oldest  son, 
Aleksandr,  returned  from  his  imprisonment  in  Japan. 
His  arrival  enlivened  the  dead  house,  but  did  not  lessen 
the  family  grief.  Often,  as  Tatyana  ]\Iikhailovna  looked 
with  motherly  attention  at  his  strong,  sunburned  face 
with  its  forceful  chin,  straight  black  moustaches,  blue 
eyes  with  the  ironical  gleam  in  them,  his  broad  shoulders 
and  slender,  almost  feminine  hands  and  long  fingers, 
she  would  forget  it  was  her  oldest  son.  It  would  seem 
to  her  that  she  was  looking  upon  her  eighteen  year  old 
Misha,  her  ruddy,  blue-eyed  boy,  so  lively  and  unreason- 
ingly  happy.  She  would  get  up  from  the  couch,  and 
without  looking  at  Natasha,  would  go  with  uncertain 
steps  into  her  dark  bedroom  with  its  smeU  of  drugs,  bow 
low  before  the  ikon,  whisper  her  prayers,  and  then  spend 
the  long  night  unable  to  sleep. 

Nikolay  Stepanovich  would  question  his  son  excitedly 
about  details  in  regard  to  Rozhdestvcnsky,  the  flotilla, 


302  What  Never  Happened 

the  Japanese,  the  battle  of  Tsu  Shima,  cursing  the  gov- 
ernment and  the  revolutionists,  recalling  the  victorious 
past,  the  Turkish  campaign,  Skobelev,  Sheinovo,  and  the 
Green  Mountains,  and  proudly  pointing  to  the  cross  of 
St.  George  that  decorated  his  breast. 

Aleksandr  listened  in  attentive  silence,  without 
criticism,  but  also  without  approval,  as  if  not  daring  to 
argue  with  his  father.  Externally  he  appeared  the 
same  as  always,  quiet  and  inscrutable,  saying  little,  but 
kind  and  simple.  And  neither  Tatyana  Mikhailovna  nor 
Nikolay  Stepanovich  noticed  the  change  in  him,  that  in- 
definable new  something  which,  though  he  was  afraid  to 
admit  it  even  to  himself,  had  haunted  him  ever  since  the 
battle  of  Tsu  Shima. 

Natasha  could  often  see  him  from  her  window  in  his 
white  coat  and  black  cap,  pacing  the  garden  for  hours 
at  a  time,  with  his  hands  clasped  behind  his  back.  He 
seemed  to  be  thinking  about  something  important  and 
pressing.  Trying  in  vain  to  find  some  solution,  she 
would  join  him  silently,  with  her  customary  inbred  shy- 
ness, and  walk  at  his  side,  a  thin,  fair-haired  figure  in 
her  white  dress  and  shawl.  Aleksandr,  seeing  her, 
would  frown,  as  if  trying  to  chase  away  his  irritating 
thoughts,  and  would  start  a  conversation  about  some- 
thing familiar  and  near — about  mother,  father,  ]\Ialanya 
l*etrovna,  about  the  wind  breaking  a  rosebush  in  the 
garden,  about  the  paths  being  overgrown  with  grass, 
about  the  fading  of  the  lilacs — and  after  a  pause,  would 
invite  her  to  go  driving.  She  would  look  into  his  cold 
pale-blue  eyes,  and  then  obediently  order  Tikhon  to 
harness  the  horses. 

Sometimes  Nikolay  Stepanovich  could  not  restrain 
himself,   and  in  his  painful  yearning  for  Audrey  he 


What  Never  HaxDpened  303 

would  begin  to  talk  long  and  excitedly  about  traitors, 
"the  long-haired  ones,"  the  "disrespectful  sons,"  "the 
new  sort  of  people,"  saying  there  was  no  love  for  the 
Fatherland,  no  obedience  to  authority,  no  fear  of  God, 
and  the  revolution  ought  to  be  put  an  end  to.  Nobody 
contradicted  him.  Tatyana  ]\Iikhailovna  silently  shook 
her  grey  head,  Natasha  looked  pleadingly  and  fear- 
fully at  her  angry  father,  and  Aleksandr  maintained 
his  puzzling  silence  and  supported  the  conversation  so 
unwillingly  that  Nikolay  Stepanovich  once  looked  at  him 
severely  and  said : 

"^Tiy  are  you  silent,  Aleksandr?  Don't  you  agree 
with  me?" 

"Agree  about  what,  Papasha?" 

Nikolay  Stepanovich  got  up,  tall  and  heavy,  with  the 
ruddiness  of  a  sturdy  old  age  in  his  cheeks,  and  said, 
choking  with  indignation : 

"I  speak  about  those  persons,  about  the  gentlemen 
revolutionists,  about  the  revolts,  about  Potiomkin,  about 
OchaJcov,  about  the  Memory  of  Azov,  about  the  uprising 
— and  where? — in  Moscow.  Just  think!  In  Moscow!" 
he  ended  with  a  childish,  helpless  sob.  '  *  About  the  scan- 
dalous murders,  yes,  the  murders.  About  the  fact  that' 
Russia  is  perishing ! ' ' 

"I  don't  know  about  these  things,  Papasha,"  said 
Aleksandr  turning  towards  the  window. 

"You  don't  know?  You  don't  know?  And  what 
happened  in  Japan?  What  happened  in  Japan?  In 
Japan,  in  the  presence  of  Japanese  soldiers,  who  were 
reading  booklets,  who  were  spreading  propaganda,  with- 
out any  sense  of  shame,  any  remorse  ?  You  yourself  told 
me  about  it.     Or  didn't  you?     No?" 

"Yes,  you're  right.    I  did," 


304  What  Never  Happened 

"Well,  there,  there,  you  see?  And  you  tell  me,  j-ou 
don't  know  about  these  things.  What  are  you?  Aren't 
you  an  officer  of  the  Russian  navy?  Aren't  you  a  de- 
fender of  the  Fatherland?  Or  perhaps  it's  all  the  same 
to  you?  Let  Russia  perish.  Let  Misha — "  Here 
Nikolay  Stepanovich  sobbed  again,  "Let  j\Iisha — how's 
that?    Whose  fault  is  it?" 

Natasha  stretched  out  her  hands  in  alarm.  Tatyana 
]\Iikhailovna  got  up  from  the  couch  and  slowly  left  the 
room.  Aleksandr  thought  a  minute,  then  smiling  in  a 
conciliatory  manner,  said: 

"It  all  is  really  terrible,  Papasha." 

"Well,  that's  just  what  I  say,"  the  old  man  hastily 
put  in,  looking  forlornly  around  the  room.  "That's 
just  what  I  say.  It's  really  terrible — terrible!  And 
whose  fault  is  it?     Whose?" 

In  September  Aleksandr 's  leave  of  absence  was  over. 
The  days  were  clear  and  soundless,  spiderwebs  spread 
over  the  harvested  fields,  and  the  hounds  began  to  bay 
and  the  hunting  horn  to  blow  in  the  j-ellow  linden  woods. 
Aleksandr  was  spending  his  last  days  hunting,  but 
evenings  he  would  join  the  family  in  the  billiard  room. 
The  wind  would  whistle  outside,  the  birches  rustle 
noisily.  Natasha  would  be  busy  at  the  samovar;  the 
room  would  be  quiet,  light,  but  rather  sad. 

Father  Vasily,  the  good-looking  priest,  would  come 
in  his  brown  robe,  sit  in  the  low  arm-chair,  drink  tea 
with  cognac  and  sigh.  Tatyana  Mikhailovna  would  sew, 
while  father  and  son  would  play  a  game  of  billiards. 

On  Sunday  evening  Nikolay  Stepanovich  and  Alek- 
sandr were  playing  a  game  together.  In  his  unbut- 
toned coat  covered  with  chalk,  a  big,  ruddy  figure  of  a 
man,  Nikolay  Stepanovich  bent  over  the  table,  took  aim 


"What  Never  Happened  305 

with  his  hand,  wrinkled  but  still  sure,  and  struck.  The 
ball  fell  into  the  pocket. 

*' How's  that?"  He  turned  with  a  bashfully  trium- 
phant smile  to  his  son,  and  began  to  chalk  his  cue. 

"You're  playing  a  splendid  game,  your  excellency," 
said  Father  Vasily  in  a  quiet  drawl,  fingering  the  cross 
on  his  breast.  "Even  the  young  folks  are  no  match 
for  you." 

Aleksandr  bowed.  His  playing  was  so  consistently 
poor  that  Natasha  guessed  he  was  losing  on  purpose,  and 
nodded  to  him  in  gratitude,  but  meeting  his  quiet  eyes, 
she  flushed  and  looked  down.  Father  Vasily  coughed 
respectfully,  turned  to  Tatyana  IMikhailovna,  and  con- 
tinued to  converse  with  her  in  a  low  voice. 

"And  you  will  hardly  believe  me,  mother  Tatyana 
Mikhailovna,  he  has  gone  all  wrong.  He  is  good  for 
nothing,  that  peasant.  Doesn't  go  to  church,  pays  no 
respect  to  the  priest,  and  is  insulting.  The  other  day 
I  was  coming  from  Kurbatov.  I  had  just  turned  into 
the  big  road,  and  there  I  saw  Vanka  the  shepherd — " 

"Which  one  is  that?"  asked  Nikolay  Stepanovich,  tak- 
ing aim  with  his  cue  and  keeping  his  eyes  on  the  green 
lamplighted  table.     "The  lame  one?" 

"The  same,  the  same,  your  excellency.  The  lame 
one.  And  what  do  you  think?  Eh?"  Father  Vasily 
stopped,  raised  his  bushy  eyebrows,  and  clasped  his 
hands  indignantly.  "I  hardly  dare  tell  you.  He  was 
standing  in  the  middle  of  the  road  and,  excuse  me,  was 
committing  a  nuisance.  I  began  to  talk  to  him,  to  re- 
proach him.  'Really,'  said  I,  'can't  you  see  that  your 
spiritual  father  is  riding  by?'  And,  imagine,  he 
laughed  out  aloud,  and  said  something.  I  can't  repeat 
it." 


306  AVhat  Never  Happened 

Tatyana  Mikhailovna  did  not  raise  her  head.  Nik- 
olay  Stepanovich  struck  the  ball  with  his  cue. 

"And  what  did  he  say,  the  scoundrel?" 

"He  said,  your  excellency,"  Father  Vasily  almost 
shouted,  red  with  anger,  "he  said,  'Get  out,  while  you're 
all  there,  you  long-haired  one!'  That's  what  he  said. 
How  do  you  like  it?" 

"He  ought  to  be  hanged,"  said  Nikolay  Stepanovich 
in  a  hoarse  voice,  growing  red  in  the  face.  Aleksandr 
cast  his  eyes  down  and  lighted  a  cigarette.  For  a  mo- 
ment silence  reigned  in  the  room.  Only  the  sound  of 
the  samovar  and  the  rustling  of  the  leaves  outside  could 
be  heard. 

"Some  one's  coming,"  said  Natasha,  rising  and  going 
out  on  to  the  porch. 

Outside  the  dogs  were  barking  furiously,  the  long- 
haired watch-dog  Sharik  in  short  barks,  and  Misha's 
favourite  dog  Vesta  in  a  thin,  sustained  howl.  There 
was  no  sound  of  wheels,  but  the  voices  of  peasants  could 
be  heard  outside  distinctly,  and  lights  were  seen  twink- 
ling among  the  trees.  Then  the  gates  creaked  and  a 
door  banged.     Natasha  returned  with  a  telegram. 

"Audrey  arrested.  Trial  Thursday.  Come  at  once. 
Counsel  Ikonnikov." 

Father  Vasily  hastily  picked  up  his  wide-brimmed  hat, 
and  stole  out  of  the  room  without  taking  leave.  The 
dogs  kept  up  their  barking. 


CHAPTER  XX 

CELL  No.  17,  where  Bolotov  was  confined,  was  a 
high,  gloomy  room  of  solid  old-fashioned  con- 
struction. The  narrow,  grated  window  looked 
out  upon  a  high  grey  wall,  from  which  the  plaster  had 
scaled  exposing  the  brick.  Here  and  there,  between  the 
red  bricks,  green  moss  showed,  and  on  the  top  of  the 
wall,  at  the  very  edge,  hung  a  pale  bluebell.  The  sun 
never  penetrated  into  the  fortress.  It  was  always  dark, 
quiet  and  damp.  The  death-like  stillness  exhausted 
Bolotov  on  the  very  first  day. 

He  was  sound  asleep,  when  the  iron  bolt  clattered, 
the  key  clicked  in  the  lock,  and  two  soldiers  tramped 
into  the  cell.  One  of  them,  an  old  gendarme  with  a 
shaking  white  head,  Bolotov  had  seen  before.  When  he 
had  been  brought  to  the  fortress  in  his  blood-stained 
jacket,  wounded  and  beaten,  and  had  come  to  conscious- 
ness on  the  cold  damp  floor  of  the  prison  corridor,  for  a 
moment  not  knowing  where  he  was,  it  was  this  gendarme 
who  had  helped  him  up  and  brought  him  some  hot  tea. 
The  other  was  a  corporal,  lean  and  tall,  with  a  wiry 
neck  and  a  dull  gloomy  face.  He  came  close  to  the  cot, 
and  bent  over  Bolotov.  His  breath  smelled  of  vodka  and 
tobacco. 

"Dress!"  he  said  gruffly. 

Bolotov  was  seized  by  an  unpleasant,  even  painful 
feeling.  What  pained  him  was  not  that  the  door  was 
locked,    that    gendarmes   were    on    guard,   that   armed 

307 


308  What  Never  Happened 

strangers  were  around  him  though  he  was  undressed  and 
had  no  desire  to  see  them,  and  that  the  trial  was  sched- 
uled for  that  day.  He  felt  unpleasant  because  the 
soldier  was  angry  and  gruff,  and  his  eyes  wicked  and 
haughty. 

"It's  in  their  interest,  and  they  don't  understand. 
They  don't  want  to  understand."  Bolotov  heaved  a 
sigh  as  he  put  on  his  jacket  and  thought  of  the  coming 
trial.  Though  he  knew  he  would  surely  be  convicted,  it 
seemed  improbable  that  this  day,  Thursday,  officers  un- 
known to  him  yet  clothed  with  authority,  would  hold  a 
short  discussion  concerning  himself  as  a  mere  matter  of 
form  and  would  then  render  a  verdict,  that  is,  would  an- 
nounce and  have  it  put  on  record  that  he  must  be  killed. 

"They'll  hang  me.  Funny."  Bolotov  smiled,  and 
began  to  rehearse  the  speech  he  had  so  carefully  pre- 
pared. Here  behind  the  prison  bars,  in  the  solitude  of 
soundless  night,  he  forgot  all  insults  and  differences  of 
opinion.  Now  Arseny  Ivanovich,  Doctor  Berg,  Vera 
Andreyevna,  the  squad,  the  committee,  the  whole  Party 
were  all  one  family  to  him  sharing  a  life  of  common  in- 
terests, and  he  was  in  duty  bound,  not  only  to  die 
ungrudgingly,  but  also  to  bear  witness  to  the  strength 
of  the  family.  These  thoughts  gave  him  courage.  In 
them  he  found  solace,  and  in  the  conviction  that  he  was 
doing  his  duty.  So  he  repeated  to  himself  the  words  he 
was  going  to  say  at  his  trial,  among  the  "bitter  enemies," 
*  *  in  the  enemy 's  camp, ' '  with  one  foot  in  the  grave.  He 
got  up  and  looked  at  the  soldiers,  a  challenge  in  his  eyes. 
The  tall  corporal  had  the  same  haughty  expression.  The 
old  gendarme  shook  his  head. 

"Mister,  you  forgot  your  cap." 

In  the  dark,  resounding  corridor  stood  a  platoon  of 


What  Never  Happened  309 

soldiers  of  the  guard,  with  guns  and  attached  bayonets. 
The  corridor  smelled  of  barracks,  cheap  tobacco,  and 
sweat.  A  young  officer  with  a  silver  belt  tinkled  his 
sword. 

"March!"  he  cried,  without  looking  at  Bolotov. 

The  soldiers  started  in  measured  steps,  their  heavy 
tread  resounding  in  the  corridor.  At  that  moment  it 
came  to  Bolotov  that  his  speech  would  be  unconvincing 
and  superfluous.  All  these  men,  from  the  erect  officer 
down  to  the  awkward  soldier  walking  at  his  right,  who 
were  throwing  indifferent  glances  at  him,  were  doing 
their  customary,  boring,  sickening  work.  For  them  he 
was  not  Bolotov,  not  a  member  of  the  Party,  not  an 
emancipator  of  Russia,  not  the  murderer  of  the  hateful 
prosecutor,  but  one  of  those  governmental  objects  which 
they  are  obliged  to  watch,  to  take  care  of,  to  accompany 
to  the  bath-house  and  to  the  court,  and  to  hand  over  on 
the  issuance  of  a  warrant.  Should  he  be  hanged  tomor- 
row, he  would  be  forgotten,  not  only  by  the  trained 
soldiers,  but  also  by  the  Supritkins,  Strelovs,  and  Por- 
firyches,  and  perhaps  even  by  Arseny  Ivanovich,  Doctor 
Berg  and  Vera  Andreyevna.  With  bent  head  he  fol- 
lowed them  obediently  to  court. 

Previously  when  he  had  thought  of  arrest  and  trial, 
he  had  fancied  it  something  great  and  terrible,  some- 
thing that  one  must  prepare  oneself  for  diligently  and 
prayerfully,  something  that  would  exact  superhuman 
strength  and  would  serve  as  a  measure  of  life.  But 
prison,  arrest,  and  the  tiresome  expectation  of  death  he 
found  w^ere  simpler,  more  colourless  and  more  uninter- 
esting than  they  were  conceived  to  be  and  written  about. 
Fortress-like  walls  covered  with  moss,  a  solitary  bell- 
flower,  a  stone  floor,  an  opening  in  the  door,  dinner  at 


310  What  Never  Happened 

twelve  0  'clock,  a  decrepit  gendarme  with  a  shaking  head, 
a  young  sub-lieutenant,  marching  soldiers.  It  was  all 
so  simple,  so  much  like  barracks,  so  devoid  of  solemnity 
and  brilliancy  that  one  could  not  think  of  being  afraid 
of  it.  Only  it  was  rather  strange  and  unpleasant  to  be 
led  along  a  dusty  corridor  between  twinkling  bayonets 
and  have  somebody  dispose  of  his  life.  But  even  this 
feeling  gave  him  no  fear. 

Again  the  iron  lock  snapped.  Bolotov  was  led  into 
a  clean  five-cornered  yard,  paved,  and  with  a  little 
flower  bed.  He  caught  sight  of  the  blue  sky,  the  cold 
sun,  and  he  heard  the  twittering  of  sparrows.  He  felt 
a  longing  for  liberty,  as  one  feels  a  longing  for  fields  in 
the  spring.  He  felt  lonesome  and  sad.  He  was  seized 
by  a  desire  to  see  the  Neva,  Vanya,  and  Ippolit,  the 
window  of  the  tobacco  store,  and  the  noisy  Liteiny  Pros- 
pect. But  his  desire  died  as  quickly  as  it  had  come. 
The  soldiers  halted  before  an  unpainted  oak  door,  and  an 
officer  called: 

"Attention!" 

The  trial  was  held  in  a  low  room  with  a  portrait  of 
the  Czar  on  the  wall  and  a  big  green  table.  Bolotov  sat 
on  a  bench.  To  his  right  and  left  the  soldiers  stood 
erect.  The  one  with  the  round  indifferent  face  kept  on 
looking  at  him.  In  the  corner  near  the  door  sat  the 
colonel  of  gendarmes  writing  rapidly.  The  room  was 
quiet.     Only  a  fly  was  buzzing  and  the  pen  squeaked. 

"Quicker!  Quicker!"  thought  Bolotov  with  irrita- 
tion. Then  he  recalled  what  had  happened  the  day  be- 
fore. His  mother  had  entered  his  cell,  and  a  colonel  of 
gendarmes,  who  smelled  of  perfume,  had  obligingly  of- 
fered her  a  chair.  Bolotov  saw  her,  grey  and  old,  in  a 
black  scarf,  stretching  out  her  weak  hands.    Her  breast 


\ 


What  Never  Happened  311 

began  to  tremble.  Natasha  breathed  heavily,  and  he, 
forlorn  and  stifling  sobs,  without  knowing  what  to  say, 
kept  repeating  one  short  phrase:  "Don't  cry,  don't 
cry,  don't  cry."  But  the  colonel  made  a  noise  with  his 
sword  and  boomed:  "The  visit  is  over.  Take  him 
away. ' '  At  the  recollection  of  this  Bolotov  felt  a  rage  of 
indignation.  "Oh,  the  scoundrels!  Scoundrels!"  he 
muttered,  panting. 

The  soldier  with  the  round  face  thumped  his  gun  on 
the  floor  and  looked  at  him  perplexed. 

"Yes,  of  course,  scoundrels.  And  Sliozkin?  Didn't 
Sliozkin's  wife  cry?  Didn't  she  plead  at  my  feet? 
Didn't  she  kiss  my  feet  in  mortal  anguish?  Didn't  she 
plead  for  mercy?  Oh,  it's  all  the  same."  He  made  a 
despairing  motion  with  his  head.     "Let  them  try  me." 

"Audrey  Nikolayevich. " 

Bolotov  raised  his  eyes.  Ikonnikov,  with  a  clean- 
shaven, worn,  yellowish  face  and  in  a  black  frock-coat 
with  a  portfolio  under  his  ami,  shook  his  hand  affec- 
tionately : 

"There  have  been  cases — don't  feel  embarrassed,  my 
angel.  The  Party  looks  up  to  you.  What,  the  Party? 
The  whole  of  Eussia!  And  perhaps — where  doesn't  the 
devil  take  a  hand ?  I  don't  want  to  give  you  false  hopes, 
but  there  have  been  cases — once,  I  remember,  in 
Odessa — " 

Bolotov  smiled. 

* '  What  for,  cher  maitre  ?  Didn  't  you  yourself  say  we 
lie  from  morning  till  night — ha?" 

Ikonnikov  adjusted  his  pence-nez, 

" True,  my  angel,  true.  And  it's  no  use  talking.  The 
tongue  really  has  no  bones.  Rosenstern  sends  you  greet- 
ings."   Then    he    began    to    whisper    hurriedly    in    a 


312  What  Never  Happened 

changed  voice:  "The  impression  is  great,  colossal! 
Ah,  my  dear  man,  Andrey  Nikolayevich.  Ah — "  He 
shook  off  a  tear  furtively.    Bolotov  made  no  reply. 

* '  The  court  is  coming !     Rise !     Hats  off ! " 

Through  wide-open  side  doors  the  judges  filed  in. 
First  came  a  grey  general  of  imposing  figure,  in  a  tight- 
fitting  uniform,  swaying  as  he  walked  and  knitting  his 
heavy  brows.  He  tried  to  look  solemn,  stern  and  impar- 
tial. But  his  tired,  good-natured  eyes  and  the  uncertain 
motions  of  his  large  red  hands  showed  that  he  was  pre- 
occupied with  his  own  interests  and  it  made  no  difference 
to  him  whom  and  for  what  he  would  try.  He  was  fol- 
lowed by  a  short  round  man  with  a  little  flaxen  beard 
and  a  military  uniform,  wearing  glasses  and  a  cross  of 
St.  George  on  his  breast.  The  third  judge  was  lean, 
bony,  and  long-legged.  He  had  the  gruff  face  of  an 
official,  and,  as  Bolotov  noted,  he  wore  a  gold  bracelet 
on  his  wrist. 

Their  slow  quiet  motions  revealed  to  Bolotov  that  to 
them,  too,  he  was  merely  a  governmental  object  and  the 
trial — an  act  of  mercy  and  justice —  was  merely  an  every 
day  event  that  rather  bored  them.  The  speech  he  had 
prepared  would  appear  degrading  and  ridiculous. 
Before  it  had  seemed  out  of  place  and  pitiful. 

"Anyway,  the  verdict  has  been  fixed  already.  And 
why  is  Ikonnikov  here?"  he  thought  with  exasperation. 
" If  I'm  to  be  hanged,  then  let  them  hang  me !  There  is 
no  need  to  talk." 

The  grey  judge,  who  presided,  coughed,  looked  up  ab- 
sentmindedly  at  the  high  ceiling,  and  said : 

"Your  name,  surname,  and  title?" 

Bolotov  made  no  answer.  The  judge  closed  his  eyes 
and  repeated  the  question.    Receiving  no  response  again, 


What  Never  Happened  313 

he  looked  indifferently  at  Bolotov  and  bent  over  to  the 
little  judge.  Ikonnikov,  pale,  excited,  and  angry,  whis- 
pered pleadingly: 

"AVhat  are  you  doing?    Answer!    Answer!" 

*  *  You  don 't  care  to  answer  ? ' '  asked  the  general  drily 
and  contemptuously.  Bolotov  nodded.  The  colonel  of 
gendarmes  winked,  adjusted  his  silver  shoulder-knot,  and 
began  to  write  hurriedly. 

While  the  uglj^,  pock-marked  secretary  of  the  high- 
sounding  name  Caruso  read  the  charge,  swallowing  the 
words,  Bolotov  did  not  once  look  at  the  judges.  He  was 
seized  by  a  feeling  of  hatred.  It  was  not  important  to 
him  by  whom  he  was  being  tried,  what  the  verdict  would 
be,  and  what  the  counsel  would  say;  whether  he  would 
be  hanged  or  not,  and  how  many  more  hours  he  had  yet 
to  live ;  or  what  the  Party  would  think,  and  Russia,  Ar- 
seny  Ivanovich,  Vanya,  and  the  committee.  One  thing 
was  important,  that  he,  Bolotov,  a  free  man,  had  been 
brought  there  forcibly  by  armed  men,  into  that  dark 
hall  where  Caruso  was  reading,  where  some  judges  were 
sitting,  a  gendarme  was  writing  hurriedly,  and  rifles 
were  shining.  He  felt  like  shouting  that  nobody,  neither 
the  presiding  judge,  nor  his  associates,  nor  the  soldiers, 
nor  the  young  officer,  nor  the  ministers  had  the  right  to 
kill  him,  a  free  man.  He  clenched  his  teeth,  the  colour 
rushed  from  his  cheeks,  and  he  wrung  his  fists. 

The  prosecutor  was  saying  something  uninteresting 
and  incoherent,  the  secretary  was  muttering  something, 
and  the  associate  judges  were  whispering  to  each  other. 
Bolotov  heard  nothing.  He  gathered  all  his  conscious 
will  power  for  one  purpose,  not  to  shout,  not  to  say  in- 
sulting words,  to  bear  the  trial  with  dignity. 

The  presiding  judge  made  an  effort  to  get  up  from  his 


314  WHat  Never  Happened 

chair  and  read  the  verdict  in  a  solemn  voice,  accenting 
the  words.  Ikonnikov  lost  his  composure,  the  soldiers 
straightened  up,  and  Bolotov,  without  looking  at  the 
judges,  turned  and  with  a  firm  step,  followed  the  young 
officer  out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

WHEN  Bolotov  returned  to  his  cell,  No.  17, 
and  had  changed  his  clothes  for  the  blue 
prison  garb  and  had  put  on  the  high  wooden- 
soled  prison  slippers,  and  the  gendarmes  had  gone  out 
with  a  loud  bang  of  the  door,  he  walked  slowly  to  the 
grated  window  and  looked  out,  trying  to  get  a  glimpse 
of  the  sun,  but  in  vain.  The  only  things  to  be  seen  were 
the  gloomy  cracked  wall,  the  red  spots  of  bricks,  and  the 
bell-flower  with  its  quivering  transparent  petals.  The 
wind  must  have  been  blowing. 

"A  bell-flower!  And  down  on  our  estate  there  are 
many  flowers,"  Bolotov  thought,  and  his  heart  began  to 
pound.  He  was  seized  by  a  desire  to  see  his  mother  and 
father,  and  sister,  and  Sasha's  quiet,  pale  blue  eyes  for 
only  one  minute.  *'Sasha!  Where  is  Sasha?  Mamma 
says  he  is  here  in  St.  Petersburg,  and  sends  me  kisses. 
Sasha  kisses  me?"  he  whispered,  on  the  verge  of  tears. 
But  the  tears  did  not  come.  The  little  opening  in  the 
door  winked  like  an  eye,  and  an  unseen  some  one  kept 
watching  through  it,  long  and  curiously.  "Oh,  the 
scoundrels,  scoundrels!  What  do  they  want?"  Bolo- 
tov dropped  his  head  and  began  to  pace  the  cell. 

"What  was  I  thinking  of  a  while  ago  ?  Oh,  yes,  about 
Sliozkin  and  the  judges.  I  killed  and  I  shall  be  killed. 
One  who  has  raised  the  sword  shall  perish  by  the  sword. 
Will  they  really  kiU  me ?  Me?  Today?  Kill?  What 
does  the  word  mean?  Kill?  They'll  lead  me  out  of  the 
cage,  and  like  a  sheep — like  a  sheep — No ! ' ' 

315 


316  What  Never  Happened 

"And  I  prayed  to  the  image  of  Christ, 
And  I  made  low  bows  to  all  sides. 
Pray,  forgive  me,  oh,  people  of  God, 
And  say  prayers  for  my  sins, 
For  my  big,  heavy  sins! 
And  I  had  no  time  to  look  at  the  people 
Before  they  cut  my  wild  head  off, 
Down  to  the  very  powerful  shoulders." 

He  recalled  the  words  that  he  had  read  somewhere, 
and  suddenly  felt  relieved. 

"I'm  not  the  only  one,  not  the  first  nor  the  last. 
Seriozha  and  Zheliabov,  and  Pestel,  and  Pugachov,  and 
Stenka  Razin.  Why  Stenka  Razin?  What  have  I  in 
common  with  Stenka  Razin?  'Pray  for  my  sins.* 
But  nobody  will  pray.  And  I?  Can  I  pray?  I  can't 
and  I  don't  want  to.  Don't  want  to,  don't  want  to.  If 
life  is  so  made  that  a  helpless  man  can  be  strangled,  that 
conscience  can  be  violated,  then  I  have  no  one  to  pray  to. 
No  one.  I  don't  want  to,"  he  whispered  in  passion  and 
indignation.  He  lay  down  on  his  cot.  Far  above  in 
the  chapel,  the  bells,  out  of  tune,  struck  six  o'clock,  and 
when  their  last  sound  had  died  out  in  the  fortress  bas- 
tions, they  began  to  play  the  hymn,  "The  Glory  of 
God"  sadly  and  solemnly.  "Great  is  the  glory  of  our 
God  in  Zion, ' '  Bolotov  began  to  sing  in  a  low  voice,  care- 
fully separating  the  words.  * '  '  There  is  no  speech,  there 
are  no  words.  He  is  great  in  Heaven  on  his  throne.' 
And  the  judges?     I  hate  them,  yes,  I  hate  them." 

Again  the  opening  winked  and  the  sound  of  steps  was 
heard. 

"Already?"  Bolotov  jumped  up  from  his  cot  and 
felt  his  cheeks  begin  to  bum  feverishly.  His  mouth  be- 
came dry. 


What  Never  Happened  317 

*'No,  impossible!  Why,  it's  only  six  o'clock.  He  is 
great  in  the  blades  of  grass  on  earth.  God,  is  it  really? 
Already?" 

The  iron-sheathed  door  opened  with  a  rumble,  the  blue 
uniform  of  a  gendarme  gleamed  in  the  corridor,  and  into 
the  cell  came  a  tall,  well-built,  very  young  gentleman  in  a 
black  frock-coat.  Bolotov  noticed  his  white  face,  big 
nose,  curly  beard,  diamond  rings,  and  gold  chain  on  his 
belly.  The  gentleman  fixed  his  grey,  kind,  nearsighted 
eyes  upon  Bolotov,  on  his  unbuttoned  prison  coat,  and 
his  prison  shoes,  and  smiled  in  an  encouraging,  friendly 
manner.     He  nodded  his  head  condescendingly. 

"Andrey  Bolotov?  Let  me  introduce  myself.  Assis- 
tant to  the  Minister,  Count  Beloselsky.  Close  the  door, ' ' 
he  ordered  the  sentry  in  a  commanding,  almost  gruff 
voice.  "They're  eavesdropping,  the  rascals.  Are  you 
comfortable  here?     It  isn't  damp?     Not  too  dark?" 

Bolotov  looked  at  him  in  amazement,  not  believing  his 
own  ears  and  fearful  for  his  sanity  as  he  heard  the 
courteous  words.  It  was  curious  and  uncanny  and 
rather  disgusting;  and  he  wished  this  big  stranger  who 
was  perhaps  kind  and  genial,  would  hurry  up  and  say 
all  he  had  to  say.  "Will  they  pardon  me?  Yes?" 
went  through  his  mind,  and  his  knees  trembled. 

"Well,  then,  I'll  get  down  to  business.  You  see,  I 
came  to  you  at  the  request  of  his  High  Excellency,  the 
Minister.  Taking  into  consideration  the  great  services 
rendered  by  your  father,  the  much-respected  Nikolay 
Stepanovich,  and  yielding  to  his  entreaties,  the  J\Iinister 
has  agreed  to  intercede  with  the  Emperor  for  mercy." 
Count  Beloselsky  stopped  and  paused  impressively. 
Looking  at  Bolotov  encouragingly,  he  waited  for  a  reply. 
But  Bolotov  kept  gazing  gloomily  at  the  floor,  and  his 


318  What  Never  Happened 

thin  face  with  its  compressed  lips  gave  no  sign  of  what 
he  was  thinking.  His  knees  were  still  trembling,  and 
his  head  was  in  a  whirl.  Count  Beloselsky  stopped 
smiling. 

"Yes,  with  the  highest  authority.  I  am  happy  I  can 
give  you  this  information.  Only,  you  see — "  He  took 
a  paper  out  of  his  pocket.  "Only,  you  must  sign  your 
name  here.  A  mere  formality.  Have  you  got  pen  and 
ink?     Hey,  who's  there?     Pen  and  ink!     Hurry!" 

Bolotov's  cheeks  flushed  a  dull  red  and  his  mouth 
grew  dry.  "They  want  to  disgrace  me.  To  disgrace 
the  squad!"  Bolotov  thought,  and  answered  firmly: 

"I  thank  you.     I  will  not  sign  the  paper." 

The  Count  thought  a  moment; 

"Listen,  Andrey  Nikolayevich.  What  are  jon  trying 
to  do?  You're  ruining  yourself — irreparably.  You 
are  young,  your  life  is  still  ahead  of  you.  If  you  don't 
care  about  yourself,  think  of  your  parents.  What  grief 
you're  causing  them!     Think  of  your  mother." 

At  the  mention  of  his  mother  and  father,  Bolotov,  feel- 
ing he  could  no  longer  control  himself,  raised  harassed 
eyes,  saying: 

* '  I  beg  of  you — yes,  I  beg  of  you,  leave  me  alone,  and 
— and — and — don't  speak  of  my  mother.  I — I — beg 
you  to  go  away.  Will  you,  please?  Please  go,  and  im- 
mediately, this  very  moment,  you  hear  me?  Get  out  of 
here ! ' '  His  shouts  became  shriller  and  louder.  Two 
gendarmes  with  clanging  spurs  appeared  at  the  door. 
Count  Beloselsky  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  left  the 
cell. 

When  the  sound  of  steps  died  away,  Bolotov  lay  face 
downward  on  his  pallet,  drawing  his  cloak  about  him 
and  trying  not  to  think.     It  was  growing  dark,  and  the 


What  Never  Happened  319 

lights  were  not  yet  lit,  and  it  was  still,  so  still,  and  the 
pounding  of  his  temples  seemed  like  heavy  footsteps. 
And  so  he  lay  motionless  in  the  dark,  without  thought, 
or  words,  or  hope,  but  only  in  overwhelming  agony  of 
spirit  till  the  chimes  sounded  the  evening  prayers. 
They  came  to  him  indistinctly  stifled  by  the  walls  of  the 
fortress.     And  then  he  heard  singing. 

Bolotov  sat  up,  his  palms  resting  on  his  knees,  and 
his  head  bowed.  He  was  not  thinking.  He  was  utterly, 
painfully  tired,  and  felt  a  great  desire  to  fall  asleep. 
He  made  an  attempt  to  sleep,  but  the  electric  light  was 
suddenly  turned  on,  and  he  blinked  his  eyes.  On  the 
moment  he  recalled  everything  that  had  been  haunting 
him  the  last  few  days,  and  tried  in  vain  to  forget.  It 
was  not  his  childhood,  nor  his  mother,  nor  father,  nor 
relatives,  nor  the  barricades,  nor  the  committee,  nor  the 
troops,  nor  the  day  of  the  convention,  when  he  had  de- 
termined on  his  way  of  life — when  he  had  resolved  to 
kill  and  to  die;  but  it  was  the  Liteiny  Prospect,  the 
blood-covered  pavements,  the  shattered  carriage,  the 
half-naked  driver,  and  the  round,  glassy  surprised-look- 
ing  eye.  And  for  the  first  time  since  he  had  been  fight- 
ing with  death,  he  realized,  not  with  his  mind,  but  with 
his  conscience,  that  it  was  not  merely  a  hateful  old  man 
who  had  been  killed,  but  also  an  innocent  human  being, 
full  of  life  and  vigour,  killed  not  by  the  committee,  not 
by  the  Party,  not  by  Russia,  but  by  him  and  him  alone. 
"When  trees  are  felled,  the  chips  fly,"  he  muttered 
through  his  teeth,  and  immediately  felt  the  meaning- 
lessness  of  his  self-justification.  And  as  from  a  high 
mountain  one  can  see  the  great  steppe  in  the  distance, 
with  here  and  there  the  roofs  of  scattered  houses,  the 
contented  herds  with  their  shepherds,  and  beyond  the 


320  What  Never  Happened 

river  glistening  in  the  sun  woods  and  the  ripe  fields  of 
grain,  so  did  Bolotov  on  the  eve  of  his  execution  see 
many  things  that  had  been  hidden  from  him  all  his  life. 
He  saw  that  even  death  of  one's  own  choosing  cannot 
act  as  redemption  for  murder,  that  a  murderer  cannot 
redeem  himself  even  with  his  own  blood,  and  if  kill  one 
must  and  may,  then  it  is  impossible  and  unnecessary  to 
seek  for  justification.  He  saw  that  he  had  had  to  kill, 
and  that  neither  articles  about  the  use  of  terror,  nor 
hatred,  nor  love,  nor  revenge,  nor  anger  had  made  him 
raise  his  sword,  but  that  a  higher  unknown  force,  mil- 
lions of  causes  and  hundreds  of  bygone  years  had 
brought  him  to  commit  murder.  And  he  also  saw — and 
this  was  the  most  valuable  thing — that  it  was  more  dif- 
ficult to  kill  than  to  die,  and  he  was  happy  to  under- 
stand that  death  was  desirable  and  not  terrifying.  He 
felt  no  remorse  and  no  regret,  but  only  a  clear,  quiet 
feeling,  peaceful  as  deep  waters.  **I  have  killed  and  I 
shall  be  killed.  All  are  right  and  all  are  wrong.  There 
are  no  innocent  and  no  guilty  ones.  There  are  two 
mortal,  thousand-year-old  enemies,  and  nobody  on  earth 
can  act  as  judge  over  them.  It  is  not  given  to  us  to 
know.  But  even  on  the  eve  of  death,  before  I  breathe 
my  last,  here  where  no  one  can  see  me  and  no  one  can 
hear  me,  I,  Audrey  Bolotov,  sentenced  to  death  by  hang- 
ing, say  and  say  it  with  solemn  faith,  'Long  live  Lib- 
erty, long  live  the  great  Russian  people ! '  " 

Bolotov  did  not  notice  that  the  evening  had  passed 
and  night  had  come.  He  did  not  lie  down  but  paced  the 
room  without  resting,  stumbling  in  his  long  prison 
clothes.  He  thought  of  nothing,  only  felt  he  had  no 
fear  in  his  heart,  and  so  was  happy.  It  was  late,  the 
clock  struck  three,  but  all  was  quiet  in  the  corridor. 


What  Never  Happened  321 

"Is  it  possible  that  I  shall  live  tomorrow?  All  day! 
My  God,  all  day ! "  he  asked  himself  with  a  secret  hope, 
and  suddenly  stopped.  Far  away  at  the  other  end  of 
the  corridor  he  heard  a  noise.  It  came  nearer  and  grew 
louder.  It  was  clear  that  many  people  were  coming  to 
him  in  the  night,  and  that  immediately  the  thing  would 
take  place  which  he  could  never  imagine,  that  inexplic- 
able and  terrible  thing  which  a  moment  ago  he  had  not 
feared,  but  even  desired.  "They?  Yes,  they,"  he 
whispered,  as  a  cold  sweat  broke  out  over  his  whole 
body,  and  suddenly  bending  like  a  cat,  he  jumped  to 
the  wall  and  seized  hold  of  his  cot  with  all  his  strength. 
He  did  not  notice  the  entry  of  the  colonel  of  gendarmes, 
nor  did  he  notice  how  white  his  face  was,  how  timid  the 
motions  of  his  men.  He  did  not  know  what  they  said 
to  him,  did  not  see  the  grey  uniforms,  the  priest,  gen- 
darmes, and  a  broad-shouldered,  hairy  man  in  a  red 
blouse.  He  came  to  himself  when  he  was  already  in  the 
paved  yard,  in  the  midst  of  a  faded  flowerbed,  in  the 
corner  near  a  water-pipe.  Above  him  was  the  endless, 
black,  star-filled  sky,  the  Big  Dipper  and  the  Milky 
"Way  split  in  two.  The  air  was  cold.  Around  him  were 
people,  very  many  people.  They  stood  in  a  huddled, 
frightened  crowd  and  looked  with  fixed  eyes  straight 
into  his  own.  And,  as  he  caught  their  look,  Bolotov 
waved  his  cap,  and  without  hesitation,  without  believing 
himself,  he  went  up  the  platform.  The  hairy  hangman 
in  the  red  blouse  threw  the  shroud  over  him  and  tight- 
ened the  noose.    The  clock  struck  five. 


PART  THREE 

CHAPTER  I 

AUTUMN  passed,  then  winter,  and  the  spring 
days  came  again,  and  blood  was  still  being 
spilled,  and  the  sanguinary  battle  of  brother 
against  brother  was  not  yet  over.  The  government  was 
still  trying,  hanging,  and  shooting,  and  sending  puni- 
tive expeditions.  The  revolutionists  were  still  plotting 
uprisings,  printing  proclamations,  organizing  the  "Work- 
men's Party  and  throwing  bombs  at  ministers.  But  to 
every  one,  officials,  students,  and  Party  members,  troop- 
ers and  soldiers,  what  they  had  not  seen  before  was  now 
clear,  that  the  revolution  had  lost  its  force  and  the  gov- 
ernment was  victorious.  Numberless  arrests  followed. 
Arrests  were  as  steady  now  as  autumn  rain.  The  po- 
lice seemed  to  know  everything,  the  most  secret  secrets 
of  the  Party.  In  December  Ippolit  was  suddenly  ar- 
rested on  the  street  in  St.  Petersburg  and  a  month  later 
was  hanged.  The  Union  of  the  Army  was  destroyed. 
The  sailors  of  the  Guard  were  seized  and  shot.  A  stu- 
dent who  had  come  from  Moscow  and  was  known  only 
to  Doctor  Berg  and  Rosenstern  was  arrested  with  a 
bomb  in  his  hands.  A  collection  of  ammunition  beyond 
the  Nevsky  Prospect  was  discovered  and  confiscated. 

These  symptoms  were  disquieting  to  the  comrades. 
Rosenstern  knitted  his  brows  and  refused  to  answer  any 
questions.     Vera    Andreye\'na    grew   thinner   and   yel- 

322 


What  Never  Happened  323 

lower,  and  complained  of  the  lack  of  secrecy  and  disci- 
pline. Arseny  Ivanovich  sighed,  shook  his  grey  head, 
and  said  by  way  of  consolation:  "Never  mind,  bene- 
factors, it  happens.  Broken  dishes  last  for  centuries." 
Yet  all  of  them,  Gruzdiev,  Rosenstern,  Vera  Andrey- 
evna,  Zalkind,  and  Arseny  Ivanovich,  had  a  feeling  that 
treachery  was  lurking  nearby,  perhaps  in  their  very 
midst,  in  the  committee.  The  most  awful  thing  was  not 
to  be  able  to  discover  it. 

The  enormous  Party,  scattered  throughout  Russia, 
only  recently  so  terrifying  and  so  faith-inspiring,  was 
losing  its  strength,  just  as  a  beast  hunted  by  dogs  be- 
comes weak  and  powerless.  This  weakness,  this  fore- 
boding of  defeat,  manifested  itself  not  only  on  the  sur- 
face, in  the  committee,  but  in  every  city,  in  every  work- 
men's circle,  in  every  student's  group,  in  eveiy  little 
organization,  in  every  detail  of  daily  life.  The  **  Dis- 
trict Republics ' '  existed  no  more,  the  numerous  meetings 
took  place  no  more.  There  were  no  strikes.  There  were 
no  spontaneous,  unplanned  assassinations.  On  the  con- 
trary, gendarmes  were  everywhere,  and  they  made  ar- 
rests without  cause  and  without  discrimination.  The 
machine  was  running  unevenly,  and  the  bond  that 
united  the  comrades  was  wearing  away.  Somewhere  in 
the  Party,  in  its  distant  branches,  timid  voices  were 
heard  saying  there  was  treachery  in  the  committee  and 
some  one  had  sold  out  the  defeated  revolution.  But  the 
rumours  were  indistinct  and  unsupported.  The  commit- 
tee knew  of  them,  but  did  not  dare  to  believe  them. 

Aleksandr  Bolotov  entered  the  Party  in  November. 
On  returning  from  imprisonment  in  Japan  in  the  sum- 
mer, he  had  already  made  up  his  mind  he  must  no  longer 
serve  in  the  army.    To  do  so,  he  felt,  would  be  to  com- 


324  What  Never  Happened 

mit  an  irreparable,  unpardonable  mistake.  He  himself 
could  not  have  told  just  when  the  profound  change  took 
place  that  made  a  terrorist  of  him,  whether  it  was  in 
Libau  at  the  sailing  of  the  fleet,  or  in  Nosibe  when  Nob- 
ogatov  arrived,  or  on  the  Yellow  Sea,  when  they  were 
waiting  for  the  Japanese  or  in  prison  in  Kioto.  Every 
day  of  the  painful  campaign  he  lived  in  thoughts  of  his 
fatherland,  of  Russia,  of  her  unheard-of  disgrace.  He 
saw  thousands  of  vigorous  youths  inspired  by  love  for 
their  Czar,  giving  their  lives  ungrudgingly  in  defence 
of  the  flag  of  Audrey.  Nevertheless  Russia  was  beaten, 
disgraced,  ruined ;  the  greatest  sacrifices  had  been  made 
in  vain.  Drop  by  drop,  like  a  slow  poison,  the  stunning 
belief  distilled  itself  into  him  that  his  duty  was  to  fight 
for  his  Fatherland,  but  not  on  the  ocean,  not  at  the  can- 
non, but  at  home,  in  the  midst  of  the  Party  struggling 
for  "land  and  freedom."  It  was  not  an  idle  attraction, 
a  thoughtless  fascination,  which  takes  hold  of  weak,  dis- 
satisfied people  in  certain  decisive  moments.  It  was  a 
ripe  determination  to  die  for  the  people,  a  determina- 
tion bought  with  blood,  a  conviction  that  he  could  not 
live  without  serving  Russia.  "When  he  learned  of  Aud- 
rey's arrest,  he  left  for  St.  Petersburg  with  his  mother 
and  Natasha.  In  St.  Petersburg  he  found  Rosenstern, 
who  received  him  with  open  arms. 

It  was  towards  the  end  of  April  that  Aleksandr  was 
for  the  first  time  invited  to  a  meeting  of  the  committee. 
He  was  not  overjoyed,  nor  did  he  consider  it  a  great 
honour  that  he,  a  recent  officer  and  a  new-comer  in  the 
Party,  should  be  initiated  into  Party  secrets.  The  pro- 
cedure seemed  natural  and  proper.  He  was  risking  his 
life  for  the  Party,  therefore  he  should  have  a  share  in 
the  discussion  of  questions  of  importance. 


What  Never  Happened  325 

The  same  representative  members  of  the  intangible 
committee  met  at  Valabuyev's  house  on  the  Kammenoos- 
trovsky  Prospect  as  had  met  there  a  year  and  two  years 
before.  They  were  all  on  hand,  as  if  there  had  been  no 
revolution,  no  scaffolds,  no  terror,  no  uprisings,  and  no 
prisons.  Aleksandr  looked  at  them  with  respect.  He 
believed  he  was  looking  upon  the  general  staff — that 
mysterious  managing  staff  which  knew  of  no  military 
honours,  no  red  tape,  no  envy,  no  competition,  and  no 
disgraceful  intrigue.  And  he  was  happy  in  the  thought 
that  he  was  serving  a  just,  dignified  cause,  hand  in  hand 
with  brave,  well-tried  people. 

When  Valabuyev  turned  his  back  and  his  red  neck 
and  left  the  room  on  tiptoe,  closing  the  heavy  door 
behind  him,  Doctor  Berg  began  in  a  dry,  matter-of-fact 
voice : 

*' Messieurs,  we  have  gathered  today  to  discuss  an  im- 
portant, I  may  say,  an  exceptionally  important  matter. 
You  know  that  lately  many  arrests  have  taken  place, 
and  under  circumstances  that  arouse  suspicion.  I  draw 
no  conclusions.  I  am  merely  pointing  out  a  fact.  Yes- 
terday I  received  the  following  letter:" 

He  paused,  reached  out  his  long  white  hand,  and  took 
a  crumpled  sheet  from  the  table.  The  big  room  with  its 
pictures  and  velvet  rugs  was  filled  with  people.  On 
the  couch,  under  a  portrait  of  Tolstoy,  sat  Rosenstern, 
with  half-closed  eyes  and  head  thrown  back  on  the 
cushion.  His  sharp  Jewish  face  with  its  curly  little 
beard  was  quiet  and  stern,  as  if  he  knew  exactly  what 
Doctor  Berg  was  about  to  say.  Arseny  Ivanovich  was 
leaning  his  elbows  on  the  embroidered  cloth  of  the  table. 
His  bowed  head  and  the  veins  standing  out  on  his  neck 
were  signs  that  he  was  sorely  distressed.    The  faces  of 


326  What  Never  Happened 

Zalkind,  Vera  Andreyevna,  Aliosha  Gruzdiev  and  the 
others  unknown  to  Aleksandr  expressed  curiosity  and 
that  peculiar  feverish  excitement  which  seizes  people 
when  faced  by  a  sudden,  unavoidable  calamity.  Doctor 
Berg  wiped  his  glasses  carefully  and  began  to  read : 

"Comrades!  There  is  a  provocateur  among  you. 
He  exposed  the  terrorist  known  by  the  name  of  Ippolit, 
he  gave  information  about  the  concealing  of  ammunition 
beyond  the  Nevsky  Prospect,  he  made  known  the  pres- 
ence of  Arkady  Kosenstem  in  St.  Petersburg,  he  re- 
vealed the  headquarters  of  the  committee.  Take  care. 
Expect  many  arrests.  Search  for  the  provocateur  near 
you.      Burn  this  letter.     Your  well-wisher." 

Doctor  Berg  stopped  and  asked : 

"Messieurs,  does  anybody  want  to  say  anything?" 

Aleksandr  slowly  raised  his  cold,  pale  blue  eyes. 
Doctor  Berg,  tall,  erect,  shaven,  with  a  green  neck-tie 
and  a  high  collar  that  reached  up  to  his  ears,  was  care- 
lessly waving  the  letter  about,  and  looking  at  the  com- 
rades with  a  searching  and,  as  it  seemed,  ironical  look. 
One  might  have  thought  he  knew  who  the  provocateur 
was  and  remained  silent  merely  because  he  was  loathe 
to  provoke  untimely  quarrels.  Aleksandr  was  sur- 
prised. It  was  difficult  to  believe  there  should  be  a 
traitor  in  the  Party,  among  people  who  loved  the  revo- 
lution with  all  their  hearts,  among  the  blameless,  well- 
tried  committee.  He  looked  at  Doctor  Berg  again  in  em- 
barrassment, trying  vainly  to  understand  the  insulting 
puzzle.  Doctor  Berg  rolled  the  letter  into  a  neat  tube, 
put  it  in  his  pocket,  and  repeated  : 

"Who  wants  the  floor,  comrades?" 

The  room  was  well-lighted  and  the  sparkling  crystal 
lamp  threw  an  even  pale  glow  over  the  Venus  of  Milo, 


What  Never  Happened  327 

the  comrades,  the  rugs,  the  pictures  and  the  mirrors. 
Everybody  was  silent,  nobody  trusted  himself,  each  one 
was  afraid  of  saying  a  careless  word,  was  afraid  of  in- 
sulting, degrading  thoughts.  Finally,  after  long  hesi- 
tation, Arseny  Ivanovich  heaved  a  sigh,  pulled  at  the 
tablecloth  with  trembling  fingers,  and  began  in  his  un- 
even bass  voice,  without  looking  at  anybody: 

"Yes,  yes,  my  benefactors,  the  situation — the  situa- 
tion is  very  difficult.  Wliat's  to  be  done?  Eh?  And 
who  is  this  well-wisher?  And — and — but  no,  what  does 
it  mean,  anyway  ? "  He  stopped  and  spread  out  his  arms. 
There  was  a  pause  again. 

"We  must  have  an  investigation,"  Doctor  Berg  said 
firmly. 

"An  investigation?  Of  course,  an  investigation — " 
Gennady  Gennadievich  began  excitedly,  as  if  he  had  just 
awakened.  He  jumped  up,  ran  over  to  Doctor  Berg, 
coughing  and  choking,  and  began  to  talk  hurriedly,  ex- 
citedly, and  angrily:  "We  must  appoint  a  committee, 
my  dear  fellows.  But  first  of  all  we  must  verify  the 
statement.  The  letter  is  anonymous.  Who  wrote  it? 
I  say  it  was  written  by  some  one  in  touch,  you  under- 
stand, in  touch  with  the  police.  No  one  but  a  person 
in  touch  with  the  police,  a  policeman,  a  provocateur,  or 
a  spy,  could  be  acquainted  with  Party  affairs,  or  could 
know  of  the  committee  headquarters.  But  if  the  letter 
was  written  by  a  member  of  the  police — "  He  paused, 
quieted  down,  lowered  his  voice  mysteriously,  and  ended 
in  measured,  emphatic  words:  "If  the  letter  was  writ- 
ten by  a  member  of  the  police,  then  can't  we  admit  the 
hypothesis,  a  mere  hypothesis,  of  course,  that  the  letter 
is  not  in  the  interests  of  the  Party?" 

"In  other  words?"    Rosenstem  asked  gloomily. 


328  What  Never  Happened 

"In  other  words,  isn't  it  proper  to  assume  that  the 
writer  of  the  letter  wrote  it  in  his  own  interests?" 

"What  could  be  his  purpose?" 

"Well,  I  cannot  explain  that,  my  dear — "  Gennady 
Gennadievich  coughed  again,  grasping  at  his  chest. 
"What  do  you  want?  I  am  not  a  police  official.  I 
don't  know  the  soul  of  a  secret  service  man.  I  merely 
think  the  document  is  not  sufficient  proof  that  we  have 
a  provocateur  in  our  midst." 

Though  what  Gennady  Gennadievich  had  said  was 
not  clear  or  convincing,  and  could  not  assuage  the  com- 
rades' apprehension,  and  though  each  one  deep  down  in 
his  heart  realized  that  the  cleverly-worked  out  hypothe- 
sis was  absurd,  still  they  felt  relieved  and  began  to  talk 
excitedly,  all  at  the  same  time.  Rosenstem  alone  kept 
quiet,  and  his  frown  deepened;  and  Aleksandr,  con- 
trolling his  growing  anger,  sat  patiently  awaiting  the 
final  decision. 

"I  can't  agree  with  the  comrade,"  Doctor  Berg  re- 
plied very  loudly,  making  himself  heard  above  the  noise, 
and  fixing  his  tie  with  a  careless  motion. 

"Les  affaires  sont  les  affaires.  We  have  received  a 
letter,  and  though  it's  anonymous,  still  it's  a  docu- 
ment. We  must  assume  that  one  of  us  is  a  provocateur. 
The  Party's  responsibility  is  too  great — "  He  paused, 
looked  about  the  room  with  a  rapid  ironical  glance,  and 
finished  drily: 

"I  demand  an  investigation." 

Gruzdiev,  who  was  sitting  alone  in  a  comer  of  the 
room,  rose  resolutely  from  his  chair  at  the  last  words. 
His  kind  Russian  face  flushed,  and  his  voice  trembled 
with  outrage. 

"Messieurs,  I  can't  understand  it,  by  God.    Are  we 


What  Never  Happened  329 

not  ashamed?  Either  we  have  faith  in  one  another,  or 
— or — we  can  suspect  anything,  the  devil  knows  what! 
If  we  trust  one  another,  we  must  burn  this  letter,  yes, 
bum  it,  throw  it  into  the  stove.  If,  however,  any  one 
can  entertain  the  thought  that  one  of  us — one  of  us — 
is  a  provocateur,  then — then  we  must  dissolve  the  com- 
mittee. I  have  faith  in  everybody.  I  want  everybody 
to  have  faith  in  me.  Otherwise  it's  a  shame  and  a  dis- 
grace. One  cannot  work  in  such  a  way.  I  can't.  Do 
what  you  will,  but  I  can't." 

And  he  left  the  room  with  a  bang  of  the  door.  Arseny 
Ivanovich  shook  his  head  in  compunction. 

"Yes,  as  you  make  your  bed,  so  you  must  lie  upon  it. 
What's  to  be  done,  benefactors?" 

Late  at  night,  after  tiresome,  fruitless  discussion, 
Aleksandr,  angry  at  the  committee's  lack  of  power  to 
defend  itself  against  treachery,  surprised  at  the  helpless- 
ness of  the  comrades,  and  himself  at  a  loss  how  to  pre- 
vent the  approaching  disaster,  was  putting  on  his  coat 
in  the  anteroom.  He  was  joined  by  Rosenstern,  and  by 
the  expression  of  Rosenstern 's  sorrowful  eyes,  deter- 
mined walk,  and  steady  silence  throughout  the  evening, 
Aleksandr  judged  that  he  wanted  to  speak  to  him. 
They  left  the  house  together.  The  day  dawned.  A 
pale  red  flushed  the  heavens,  and  beyond  the  Nevsky 
sparkled  the  spires  of  the  Isaaky  Church. 


CHAPTER  II 

THEIR  steps  made  a  loud  knocking  on  the  gran- 
ite pavement,  and  their  long  blue  shadows  fol- 
lowed them.  The  sun  was  rising.  Over  the 
Neva  the  translucent  fog  was  lifting.  In  the  whirling 
mist  shimmered  the  white  bastions  of  the  fortress.  The 
French  quay  was  empty.  Rosenstem  took  Aleksandr's 
arm,  bent  towards  him,  and  asked  softly: 

"Well,  w^hat  have  you  got  to  say,  Aleksandr  Nikolay- 
evich?" 

Aleksandr  was  lost  in  thought  for  a  minute.  Here  on 
the  bank  of  the  Neva,  under  the  sparkling  rays  of  the 
sun,  it  all  seemed  an  absurd  dream,  as  if  no  evening 
meeting  had  actually  taken  place.  He  felt  ashamed  and 
embittered  when  he  thought  of  the  committee,  and  he 
was  embarrassed  by  a  sense  of  his  own  helplessness — of 
naive  unpreparedness  and  childish  credulity.  More- 
over, he  was  utterly  disgusted  at  the  thought  of  the  po- 
lice and  gendarmes.  Angry  at  himself  and  unpleas- 
antly aware  of  being  stealthily  observed  by  Rosenstern, 
he  said  gruffly,  without  turning  his  head: 

*'I  don't  know  who  the  provocateur  is." 

** Don't  you  even  suspect?" 

"I  don't  suspect." 

"But  he  was  present  at  the  meeting,"  Rosenstem  re- 
plied softly.  In  spite  of  himself  a  shiver  ran  through 
Aleksandr's  body. 

When  Doctor  Berg  was  delivering  his  speech,  and 

330 


WHat  Kever  Happened  331 

later,  when  Aliosha  Gruzdiev  was  voicing  his  indigna- 
tion, and  Vera  Andreyevna  was  silently  showing  her  con- 
tempt, and  Gennady  Gennadievich  was  "analysing" 
the  situation,  Aleksandr  had  experienced  an  uncomfort- 
able sensation,  as  if  right  there,  in  Valabuyev's  house, 
near  him,  at  the  very  same  table,  was  sitting  the  provo- 
cateur, the  man  who  had  sold  them  all  out.  He  did 
not  trust  his  feelings,  unwilling  to  believe  that  for  money 
a  man  could  deliver  his  people  up  to  be  hanged.  But 
now,  when  Rosenstem  had  finally  voiced  his  own 
thought,  it  struck  him  with  full  force  that  it  was  no 
mistake,  that  Vera  Andreyevna,  or  Aliosha  Gruzdiev,  or 
Doctor  Berg,  or  Zalkind,  or  perhaps  Rosenstem  himself 
was  the  traitor,  the  Judas  about  whom  the  letter  had 
warned  them.  Feeling  unpleasantly  chilled,  he  stopped 
and  asked  hoarsely: 

"About  whom  are  you  speaking?" 

Rosenstem  smiled. 

"You  don't  know?" 

"No." 

"Wait  a  quarter  of  an  hour." 

They  passed  the  Aleksandrov  Park  in  silence,  and 
turned  into  Voznesensky  Street.  The  stores  were  closed, 
but  on  the  comer  of  Officer  Street  a  saloon  was  still 
open.  Rosenstem  pushed  open  the  swinging  glass  door. 
At  one  of  the  tables  was  a  man  who  rose  respectfully  to 
greet  him.  The  man  was  small  and  slender,  had  a  snub 
nose  and  thin,  colourless  hair.  His  manner  had  some- 
thing servile  about  it,  and  he  seemed  half  dazed  as  if  he 
had  no  faith  in  himself  and  felt  nobody  else  had  faith  in 
him  either.  He  might  have  been  taken  for  a  waiter,  a 
police  clerk,  or  an  office  clerk  out  of  a  job.  He  smiled 
timidly,  bowed,  and  extended  his  hand. 


332  What  Never  Happened 

"My  respects,  Arkady  Borisovich!  I  was  beginning 
to  think  you  couldn't  come."  He  gave  Aleksandr  a 
swift  sidewise  glance  that  took  him  in  from  head  to 
foot.  "And  this,  I  think,  is  Aleksandr  Nikolayevich, 
Mr.  Bolotov?     My  respects,  Mr.  Bolotov." 

"How  do  you  know  me?"  Aleksandr  asked  in  sur- 
prise, speaking  in  the  familiar  way  one  uses  to  servants, 
and  with  a  look  of  disgust  on  his  face. 

"Why  shouldn't  I  know  you?  Not  to  know  you 
would  be  not  to  know  my  superiors.  Who  doesn't  know 
you,  if  you  please?  As  soon  as  you  left  military  ser- 
vice and  joined  the  revolutionary  party,  the  secret  ser- 
vice got  orders  to  keep  you  under  watch — a  thorough 
surveillance. ' ' 

"What  sort  of  a  surveillance?" 

"A  thorough  one." 

"Thorough?" 

"Yes." 

"What  does  that  mean?" 

Aleksandr  could  not  fathom  to  whom  he  was  speak- 
ing and  why  Rosenstem  had  brought  him  there.  The 
procedure  was  disgraceful,  he  thought,  and  perhaps  ab- 
surder  than  the  speeches  of  the  night  previous.  He 
turned  slowly  to  Rosenstern.  Rosenstem  was  pulling 
at  his  beard  and  observing  the  detective  with  a  sharp 
quiet  look,  as  if  weighing  his  every  word  and  gesture. 

"What  does  this  mean?"  Aleksandr  repeated. 

"It  means  that  we  know  absolutely  everything.  May 
I  have  a  cigarette?  Merci.  Have  you  not  noticed  a 
public  hack  near  your  house?  At  the  comer  of  Vos- 
kresensky  and  Furshtadskaya  Streets  ? ' ' 

"There  are  many  hacks  standing  there." 

"Perhaps  you've  noticed  the  number?" 


What  Never  Happened  333 

**No,  I  haven't  noticed  the  number." 

"Oh,  my,  how  can  you  be  like  that?"  He  shook  his 
head  in  disapproval  and  smacked  his  lips.  "Believe 
me,  it  deserves  your  attention.  Why,  it's  our  hack- 
driver  Leonty  of  the  secret  service,  No.  1351.  And  may 
I  ask  you,  is  your  maid  hired  by  your  landlady?" 

"Yes,  by  my  landlady." 

"Is  her  name  Masha — yes?" 

"Yes,  Masha.    Why?" 

"Because  she  is  Masha,  but  also  one  of  our  people. 
Belongs  to  the  secret  service — Masha  of  the  secret  ser- 
vice. ' ' 

"Well,  Tutushkin,  that  will  do.  We  know  it  all  very 
well  without  you.  Get  down  to  business,"  Eosenstern 
interrupted  impatiently.  "Have  you  found  anything 
out?" 

"But  he  was  asking  me,"  Tutushkin  interjected. 
Aleksandr  looked  at  his  colourless  hair,  his  dirty,  shin- 
ing coat,  and  his  thin,  curled  moustachios,  and  again 
showed  his  disgust  in  the  expression  of  his  face." 

"You're  lying.    Why  haven't  I  been  arrested  yet?" 

"I  am  lying?"  Tutushkin  muttered,  taking  offence. 
"I've  never  lied  in  my  life.  You  have  not  been  ar- 
rested yet  because  the  colonel  gave  us  orders." 

"Which  colonel?" 

' '  The  chief — Colonel  von  Schoen, ' ' 

"All  right,  that's  enough,"  Eosenstern  interrupted 
angrily.  "I'm  asking  you,  have  you  found  anything 
out?" 

"I  have,"  Tutushkin  answered,  his  eyes  down. 

"Well?" 

"What?" 

"Well,  tell  us  what  you  found  out." 


334  What  Never  Happened 

"All  right.     Only—" 

"Only  what?" 

Tutushkin  blinked  his  eyes,  raised  his  pale,  browless, 
drunken  face,  and  smiled  slavishly. 

* '  Only  don 't  treat  me  badly,  Arkady  Borisovich. ' ' 

' '  Have  I  ever  treated  you  badly  ? ' ' 

"No.  Why,  no.  I  thank  you  for  everything.  I'm 
deeply  touched.  But  the  case  is  exceptional — I  may 
say,  it's  remarkable.  God  forbid  if  the  colonel  finds 
out." 

"I  know.    Tell  me,  how  much?" 

"Please  take  into  consideration  that  my  salary  's  only 
forty  rubles.  A  man  with  a  family — a  family  to  sup- 
port. And  then,  God  forbid,  if  somebody  should 
tell  on  me  and  the  colonel  should  find  out,  what  will  I 
be?    A  slave  and  a  despised  worm." 

"How  much?" 

"And  then,  Arkady  Borisovich,  I  beg  you  to  take  into 
consideration  that  it  was  very  difficult  to  find  out.  You 
may  believe  me.  It  was  only  out  of  sympathy  to  the 
Party  and  out  of  goodwill  to  you  personally.  You 
know  what  times  these  are.  "We're  afraid  of  ourselves. 
You  don't  believe  me?  My  word  of  honour,  it's  the 
truth." 

"How  much?" 

Tutushkin  was  silent,  with  a  thoughtful  look  on  his 
face.  He  began  to  drum  on  the  table  with  his  fingers, 
and  drummed  for  a  long  time,  as  if  figuring  something 
out  and  trying  to  figure  it  correctly  without  cheating. 
At  last  he  heaved  a  deep  sigh  and  said: 

"As  much  as  you'll  give,  Arkady  Borisovich.  I  trust 
you,  so  help  me  God!" 

"No,  you'd  better  tell  me." 


What  Never  Happened  335 

"Well,  I  don't  want  to  make  it  hard  for  you.  You 
ought  to  give  me  a  hundred." 

Kosenstern  whistled  softly.  Tutushkin  struck  his 
hands  together. 

'  *  Arkady  Borisovich ! ' ' 

"Well,  well,  I  see  your  prices  are  not  exorbitant." 

"Arkady  Borisovich,  you  must  take  into  account — " 

"Twenty-five." 

"Twenty-five!  My  God,  why  that's  cheaper  than 
mushrooms.  No,  really,  am  I  doing  this  for  money? 
What  is  money?  Phew!  Mere  metal,  that's  all.  But 
how  is  it  possible,  Arkady  Borisovich  ? ' ' 

Aleksandr  turned  pale.  This  bargaining  with  a  filthy 
spy  in  a  filthy  saloon,  bargaining  over  who  was  the 
traitor,  seemed  a  vile  insult  to  the  revolution.  He  bent 
across  the  table  to  Kosenstern  and  said  in  an  angry 
whisper : 

"The  devil  take  him!     Give  it  to  him!" 

"It's  Party  money,  my  dear,"  Kosenstern  answered 
unperturbed,  also  whispering.  "Are  we  Kothschilds? 
And  you  must  not  cater  to  these  scoundrels.  You  won 't 
get  rid  of  them.  See  here,  Tutushkin,  my  last  word — 
fifty." 

"Another  ten-spot,  Arkady  Borisovich!" 

"Fifty,  that's  all.  No  use  talking.  If  you  don't 
want  to,  as  you  wish." 

The  saloon  became  empty.  The  sleepy,  yawning 
waiters  were  turning  out  the  lights.  Tutushkin  sighed, 
and  drummed  on  the  table  again. 

' '  Arkady  Borisovich. ' ' 

"What  is  it?" 

"Is  that  a  price?  My  word  of  honour — six  children. 
Must  I  feed  them  or  not  ? " 


336  What  Never  Happened 

"As  you  please." 

Tutushkin  got  up,  and  with  an  unwilling,  sorrowful 
expression  looked  about  for  his  hat.  He  found  it,  put 
it  on,  and  walked  towards  the  door,  but  suddenly  shook 
his  head,  turned  back,  and  said  abruptly,  almost  gruffly : 

"Let's  have  the  money!" 

On  receiving  the  money  he  counted  it,  put  it  into  his 
pocket,  and  seated  himself  at  the  table. 

"Well,  now  talk." 

"There's  nothing  to  tell." 

"Well?" 

"Everything  is  just  as  I  told  you.  Of  course,  he  is 
the  'sole.'  " 

"The  sole?" 

"Yes,  a  secret  assistant." 

"Speak  up,  you  rascal,  who  is  the  provocateur?"  cried 
Aleksandr,  hardly  able  to  control  himself  and  clenching 
his  fists  under  the  table. 

"The  provocateur?  You  want  to  know  his  name?" 
Tutushkin  smiled  a  servile  smile.  "There — the  famous 
member  of  the  committee,  Doctor  Berg."  He  gave  a 
silly  giggle,  bowed  rapidly,  and  made  his  exit  into  the 
street. 


CHAPTER  III 

FROM  afar  yet,  as  Aleksandr  was  approaching  his 
house,  he  was  disturbed  to  notice  a  public  hack 
at  the  entrance.  He  glanced  at  the  number. 
On  the  worn  red  plate  he  distinctly  saw  the  white  num- 
ber, 1351.  "Our  hack-driver,  Leonty  of  the  secret  ser- 
vice," he  recalled  the  words  spoken  with  a  giggle  and 
the  feeling  of  pained  disgust  possessed  him  again.  The 
door  was  opened  by  Masha.  She  smiled  coquettishly. 
"Good  morning,  Aleksandr  Nikolayevich." 
"Masha  of  the  secret  service.  Fie!"  He  passed 
silently  into  his  room,  and  seated  himself  on  the  couch 
without  taking  off  his  coat.  He  remained  motionless  a 
few  minutes,  trying  to  understand  all  that  had  taken 
place  the  night  before.  Doctor  Berg  with  his  bald  head, 
high  collar,  and  mysterious  smile,  the  ambiguous  anony- 
mous letter,  Arseny  Ivanovich,  so  forlorn,  the  filthy  sa- 
loon and  the  servile  Tutushkin — it  was  all  so  new,  so 
unexpected  and  so  strange  that  he  could  hardly  believe 
himself.  He  feared  his  memorj^  was  failing  him.  He 
passed  his  hand  thoughtfully  over  his  hot  cheeks.  Doc- 
tor Berg  a  provocateur!  And  I  am  not  to  be  hanged 
yet,  because  Colonel  von  Schoen  gave  no  orders.  I  am 
in  the  hands  of  the  secret  service  spies,  at  the  mercy  of 
Colonel  von  Schoen.  He  can  hang  me  or  spare  me  at  his 
will.  Faugh!  Seized  by  a  sensation  of  actual  physical 
pain  he  got  up  and  walked  over  to  the  window.  He 
had  a  military  bearing,  shoulders  squared,  head  raised 
and  firm  steps. 

337 


338  What  Never  Happened 

He  recalled  a  rainy  autumn  night.  The  battleship 
was  rolling  heavily,  its  stern  swept  by  the  waves.  The 
wind  was  blowing,  the  waves  beating,  the  rain  falling 
in  torrents.  In  the  misty  distance  shimmered  the  fires 
of  the  ship  Aleksandr.  Everything  was  so  small,  grey 
and  dull.  He  was  sleepy.  The  "dog-watch"  was  so 
long  and  tiresome.  But  suddenly  the  shrill  sound  of  the 
silver  bugle  rent  the  howling  wind.  Lights  signalled. 
And  immediately  the  projector  flashed,  the  heavy  waves 
were  brilliantly  lighted,  the  decks  rang  with  the  tramp- 
ing of  feet,  wheels  rolled  over  the  rails,  the  telegraph 
began  to  click  in  haste.  With  a  heavy,  powerful,  deaf- 
ening sound  roared  the  first  shot.  *  *  A  submarine  attack ! 
An  attack ! "  He  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  high  cheek- 
bones of  the  Asiatic  Malaika.  Again  bells  rang,  men 
ran,  and  the  ship  was  surrounded  with  a  belt  of  fire. 
And  then  an  excited  voice:  "How  dare  you  shoot? 
Can't  you  see?     It's  a  fishing-smack!" 

"Yes,  we  were  shooting  at  fishermen.  Yes,  it  was  a 
shame,  a  mistake,  merely  a  mistake.  But  the  enemy  was 
not  to  be  seen.  Sea  all  around,  night,  and  the  fate  of 
Russia.  And  now?  Is  it  not  the  fate  of  Russia?  Is 
it  not  a  shame?  And  a  hidden  enemy  again.  "Who? 
The  Japanese?  Admiral  Togo?  No.  Tutushkin  and 
Doctor  Berg." 

"Am  I  doing  this  for  money?"  he  distinctly  heard  the 
servile  voice  with  the  giggle  in  it  saying.  "What  is 
money?  Metal.  Forty  rubles  for  a  man  with  a  fam- 
ily." 

"And  Rosenstem  bargains  with  him,  buys  him?  And 
Doctor  Berg?  Les  affaires  sont  les  affaires.  And  Doc- 
tor Berg  is  listened  to.  And  Arseny  Ivanovich  spreads 
his  hands  helplessly.    And  this  takes  place  in  the  Party, 


What  Never  Happened  339 

in  the  committee."  Aleksandr's  lips  curled  contempt- 
uously. He  threw  open  the  double  window.  A  smell 
of  spring  rushed  into  the  room,  a  noise  of  the  streets. 
Above  him,  between  the  houses,  was  the  blue  sky.  Be- 
low at  the  gate,  was  the  patient,  watchful  hack-driver. 
No.  1351.  ''Must  I  fight  him,  or  Colonel  von  Schoen? 
Or  Masha  of  the  secret  service  ? ' '  He  leaned  against  the 
window  and  noticed  he  still  had  his  coat  on.  ''And  if 
one  must  fight,  then  how?" 

He  recalled  another  night,  still  more  disgraceful,  a 
night  he  could  never  forget  even  if  he  had  wanted  to. 
The  battleship,  his  beloved  ship,  on  which  he  had  just 
made  a  trip  and  had  fought  the  whole  day  before,  was 
slowlj''  going  forward.  The  water  was  rough,  the  lights 
were  out,  the  sea  pitch-dark.  The  battleship  was  cov- 
ered with  debris,  the  mast  was  half-broken,  the  bridges 
down,  the  holds  upset,  the  fires  burned  out,  the  tow- 
ers dynamited,  the  armour  bent  and  the  iron  traps 
twisted.  Only  one  cannon  remained  untouched — the  last 
hope  and  refuge.  The  deck  was  a  hospital.  On  mat- 
tresses and  stretchers  lay  mutilated  bodies.  On  the 
floor,  his  bare  feet  under  him,  lay  Malaika  wounded,  his 
high  cheekbones  and  dark  stained  face  all  covered  with 
blood.  His  teeth  were  bared.  Holding  his  head  be- 
tween his  hands,  his  body  swaying  and  writhing,  he  was 
whining:  "Water!  "Water!  Water!"  Day  was 
dawning  in  the  east.  Far  away  on  the  horizon  in  the 
blue  and  sparkling  haze,  columns  of  smoke  became  dis- 
tinguishable. One,  two,  three — twenty-six.  Through  a 
field-glass  one  could  distinctly  see  Meekaza,  Sekko  San, 
Fuji,  Asahiga  Take,  Kassuga,  Nishi  Shima,  Idztimo, 
twenty-six  ships,  as  if  there  had  been  no  battle  at  all,  as 
if  the  unfortunate  Osliabya  had  not  perished,  as  if  Suv- 


340  What  Never  Happened 

orov  had  not  battled  like  a  lion,  as  if  Borodino  had  not 
sunk.  A  lonely  shot  resounded  on  the  stem  and  a  sig- 
nal was  raised.  And  then  a  tugboat  approached,  and 
strange  armed  men  climbed  like  monkeys  up  the  battle- 
ship. The  hateful  Japanese  flag  was  raised.  **A  dis- 
grace! We  could  not  win.  We  could  not  die.  There 
is  no  justification.  Well,  £ind  now  will  we  be  able  to 
win?  Or  will  we  again  shamefully  beg  for  mercy? 
Not  from  the  Japanese,  but  from  Colonel  von  Schoen?" 
He  walked  away  from  the  window  and  almost  fell  on  the 
couch.  He  was  seized  by  a  feeling  of  utter  exhaustion. 
He  wanted  to  fall  into  a  quiet  refreshing  sleep,  to  for- 
get Tutushkin,  and  Tsu  Shima,  and  the  committee,  to 
remember  nothing,  to  think  of  nothing,  and  particularly 
to  decide  upon  nothing. 

Some  one  knocked  at  the  door. 

"Come  in." 

Masha  entered  in  a  white  apron,  with  a  tea  tray  in 
her  hands,  smiling  amiably: 

"Will  you  have  some  tea,  Aleksandr  Nikolayevich ? " 

It  seemed  to  Aleksandr  that  it  was  not  Masha,  but  that 
hundreds  of  eyes  were  watching  and  hundreds  of  ears 
were  eavesdropping.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the  whole 
secret  service — all  the  colonels,  provocateurs  and 
spies,  all  the  traitors,  informers,  and  gendarmes — 
were  standing  behind  her  back  and  giggling  like  Tu- 
tushkin. He  turned  his  face  away  in  disgust  and 
said: 

"I  don't  want  anything.    Please  leave  me  alone." 

Masha  went  away  offended,  her  starched  skirt  rus- 
tling. Aleksandr  got  up  and  paced  the  room  thought- 
fully. He  felt  indifferent  now — that  same  feeling  of 
contempt  for  danger  which  he  had  felt  that  night  on  the 


"WHat  Never  Happened  341 

battleship  before  the  battle.  He  could  not  have  told 
what  had  caused  the  sudden  change,  but  it  was  clear  to 
him  that  no  Tutushkins  could  embarrass  him  and  he 
would  not  leave  the  Party.  "  If  I  can 't  stand  filth, ' '  he 
thought  coldly,  "then  I  ought  not  to  work  for  terror. 
I  did  not  join  the  Party  because  I  thought  the  revolu- 
tion was  powerful,  but  because  I  wanted  to  fight  and  be- 
lieved my  labour  was  needed.  Then  why  am  I  hesitat- 
ing now  ?  Did  I  leave  military  service  because  Seniavin 
and  Nikolay  fell  to  the  enemy?  Because  there  was  a 
Tsu  Shima?  And  does  faith  in  the  Party  and  in  the 
people  imply  faith  in  the  infallibility  of  the  Party  com- 
mittee? In  the  infallibility  of  Doctor  Berg?"  With 
a  timid  feeling  of  joy  and  the  firm  conviction  that 
he  was  right,  he  concluded  without  hesitation :  '  *  I  have 
come  with  the  will  to  serve  the  people,  the  Party,  and 
Russia.  "Who  has  the  power  to  prevent  me?  Doctor 
Berg?  Tutushkin?  Von  Schoen?  But  if  I  must  fight 
them,  I  shall  not  hesitate.  If  it  is  over  their  dead  bodies 
that  I  must  win,  I  am  certain  of  victory".  So  much  the 
better — let  the  enemy  be  hidden,  let  the  battle  be  a  bat- 
tle of  death,  not  of  life.  And  if  I  must  fight,  then 
Rosenstern  is  right.  Yes,  he  is  right.  Either  one  must 
keep  his  snow-white  purity  or  one  must  not  fear  any 
degradation.  Either  be  sentimental  like  Aliosha  Giniz- 
diev,  or — or  kill.  There  is  no  choice.  There  is  no  mid- 
dle way.  And  I  don't  want  it.  An  eye  for  an  eye  and 
a  tooth  for  a  tooth. ' ' 

Thus  he  reasoned  with  himself  and  though  he  was  not 
yet  rid  of  a  secret  feeling  of  disgust,  he  felt  happy  and 
relieved,  as  if  he  had  at  last  found  the  right  road.  "The 
one  who  wants  victory  comes  out  victorious,  he  who 
fears  nothing  and  dares  to  kill." 


342  What  Never  Happened 

He  longed  for  air,  for  the  city,  for  the  sea,  for  the 
majestic  and  silent  Neva.  He  put  on  his  hat  and  went 
ont.  The  hack-driver  was  still  at  the  door.  But  Aleks- 
andr  paid  no  attention  to  him  now. 


CHAPTER  IV 

ROSENSTEEN  informed  the  committee  of  his 
meeting  with  Tutushkin.  His  report  was  met 
with  indignation.  Arseny  Ivanovich,  Vera 
Andreyevna,  Zalkind,  and  Aliosha  Gruzdiev  considered 
it  a  crj'ing  injustice,  a  slander  to  suspect  Doctor  Berg 
of  being  a  provocateur.  Doctor  Berg's  work  was  so 
faultless,  he  organized  technical  work  so  brilliantly,  he 
had  been  a  member  of  the  committee  for  so  long  that  it 
was  terrible  to  assume  that  he,  a  talented,  honest,  ex- 
perienced revolutionist  should  be  in  the  service  of  Colo- 
nel Schoen.  But  it  was  still  more  terrible  to  admit  that 
the  faith  in  the  Party  was  not  justified,  that  at  its  head 
was  a  provocateur,  that  due  to  inexperience,  good  nature, 
or  blindness,  many  people  had  been  hanged  and  terror 
broken  down.  And  the  comrades  became  excited  and 
did  not  dare  to  believe  that  Tutushkin  was  not  lying. 
And  though  they  thought  they  were  defending  Doctor 
Berg,  his  dignity  and  his  honour,  they  were  in  fact  de- 
fending themselves — against  oppressive  thoughts  and 
painful  remorse.  Aliosha  Gruzdiev  contended  hotly 
that  "hideous  slanders  were  demoralizing  the  Party." 
Vera  Andrej^evna  shrugged  her  thin  shoulders  and 
pointed  out  that  "all  secret  service  men  were  knaves," 
and  that  to  listen  to  them  was  to  disgrace  the  committee. 
Gennady  Gennadievich  was  sorry  for  the  action  of  the 
comrades  and  obstinately  maintained  that  the  secret  ser- 
vice, because  of  its  fear  of  Doctor  Berg,  was  hatching 

343 


344  What  Never  Happened 

an  intrigue,  was  merely  trying  to  create  dissension  in  the 
Party.  But  Arseny  Ivanovich  was  most  indignant  of 
all. 

"Yes,  my  benefactors,"  he  complained  bitterly  at  the 
meeting.  *'If  you  listen  to  Arkady  Borisovich  you  get 
the  chills  in  your  spine.  Doctor  Berg  a  provocateur! 
One  must  approach  matters  thoughtfully,  not  in  excite- 
ment, and  without  losing  presence  of  mind.  Well,  all 
right.  Let's  assume  that  this  fellow — what's  his  name 
— Tutushkin? — is  not  lying.  Though  I  must  admit  it 
seems  to  me  he  is  one  of  those  fishermen  who  fish  out  of 
their  own  pockets.  But  let  us  assume  he's  not  lying. 
Now,  my  benefactors,  comes  the  question:  is  it  not  pos- 
sible that  this  Tutushkin  was  honestly  misled?  "Who  is 
he?  An  ordinary  government  spy,  a  petty  official,  a 
street  detective.  Well,  is  it  possible  that  Colonel  von 
Schoen  would  tell  his  secrets  to  a  spy,  that  he  would  en- 
trust a  clerk  with  the  list  of  his  assistants?  Eh?  Is  it 
not  more  likely  to  assume  that  Tutushkin  is  simply  mis- 
taken, that  he  heard  a  ring,  but  doesn't  know  where  it 
came  from?  And  I  tell  you  this,  my  benefactors,  Doc- 
tor Berg  is  our  comrade,  a  deserving  worker,  an  honest 
fighter.  The  least  hesitation,  the  least  doubt,  my  bene- 
factors, must  be  in  his  favour.  Yes — yes — in  his  favour. 
I  don't  know  who  the  provocateur  is,  but  to  assert  that  it 
is  surely  Doctor  Berg  is  not  right.  No,  it's  not.  I 
should  never  forgive  myself  if  I  suspected  a  comrade 
at  the  word  of  a  spy.  And  I  should  not  forgive  you, 
Arkady  Borisovich.  And  as  to  the  Party,  as  to  the  sug- 
gestion that  the  secret  service  is  hatching  an  intrigue, 
here  is  the  proverb:  'People  are  blaming,  but  could  not 
spoil,  winds  are  blowing,  but  could  not  blow  away,  rains 
are  wetting,  but  could  not  wash  it  away.'    No  rain  can 


What  Never  Happened  345 

wash  away  the  Party,  and  no  Colonel  Sehoen  can  dis- 
grace it.     His  nose  is  not  made  that  way." 

Rosenstern  could  not  be  convinced  by  his  comrade's 
words.  Assured  of  Aleksandr's  support,  he  firmly  de- 
manded that  Doctor  Berg  be  put  to  the  test.  A  week 
passed  in  quarrels,  bitter  reproaches,  and  indignant  ac- 
cusations. It  was  proved  by  facts  that  Doctor  Berg  had 
been  spending  thousands  of  rubles.  Arseny  Ivanovich 
still  hesitated. 

' '  How  is  that  ?  After  God,  then  money  comes  first  ? ' ' 
He  shook  his  white  head  in  perplexity.  "I  can't  sus- 
pect. But  I  can't  leave  it  without  attention.  I  don't 
know  how  to  act." 

Notwithstanding  the  protests  of  Aliosha  Gruzdiev,  it 
was  decided  to  appoint  an  investigating  committee.  It 
consisted  of  Aleksandr,  Rosenstern  and  Gennady  Gen- 
nadievich,  who  still  supported  his  saving  theory  of  the 
affair. 

Aleksandr  had  no  doubt  that  Doctor  Berg  was  a 
provocateur.  To  him  who  was  not  responsible  for  the 
committee  and  had  no  experience  in  underground  work, 
it  was  clear  that  Tutushkin  would  not  dare  to  tell  a  lie, 
and  there  could  be  no  question  of  a  police  intrigue.  He 
did  not  understand  why  an  investigating  committee 
should  be  appointed.  Why  should  a  suspected  provo- 
cateur, who  had  been  practically  exposed  be  questioned 
or  tried?  A  secret  trial  would  be  a  half -measure,  pro- 
vocateurs should  be  treated  according  to  martial  law,  as 
spies  are  treated  in  wartime,  without  mercy  or  loss  of 
time. 

"If  Doctor  Berg  were  in  the  army  he  would  be  shot 
in  twenty-four  hours,"  he  said  drily  to  Rosenstern. 
Rosenstern  looked  at  him  sideways. 


346  What  Never  Happened 

"You  think  so?" 

"Yes,  I  think  so." 

"You're  right.  But  what  can  we  do?  The  whole 
Party  would  be  aroused.  We  killed  an  innocent  man, 
they  would  say,  and  Arseny  Ivanovich  would  be  the 
first  one  to  say  it." 

Aleksandr  had  long  given  up  living  in  the  house  with 
Masha  of  the  secret  service  and  hack-driver  No.  1351. 
But  he  did  not  leave  St.  Petersburg.  A  sudden  de- 
parture would  have  drawn  down  the  suspicions  of 
Doctor  Berg.  He  lived  without  a  passport  now,  "ille- 
gally," he  slept  in  the  houses  of  people  who  were  stran- 
gers to  him,  but  sympathizers  with  the  cause,  merchants, 
officials,  and  priests.  This  tramp's  life  exhausted  him. 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  dissatisfaction. 

"If  I'm  right,  why  are  we  waiting?" 

They  were  sitting  in  the  Apollo,  a  half-dark  cellar- 
cafe  on  the  Nevsky.  The  place  was  noisy  and  hot,  a 
ladies'  orchestra  was  playing  badly,  and  crowds  were 
constantly  coming  in  and  out.  Rosenstern  was  silent, 
lost  in  thought.     Aleksandr  repeated  his  question : 

"What  are  we  waiting  for?" 

"What  are  we  waiting  for?  Listen,  Aleksandr  Niko- 
layevich.  We  are  members  of  the  Party.  Must  we  or 
must  we  not  reckon  with  public  opinion?" 

"Public  opinion?" 

"Yes.  Or  do  you  think  public  opinion  is  a  trifle? 
Very  well.  I  am  convinced  that  Doctor  Berg  is  a  provo- 
cateur. I  have  been  observing  him  for  the  last  three 
months.  But  how  will  you  explain  it  to  the  comrades? 
You  know  we  Jews  in  Russia  have  an  explanation  for  the 
way  Itzek  turned  into  Isaac.  Itzek  is  Itzkhok,  Itzkhok 
is  Isaak,  Isaak  is  Izak,  Izak  is  Isaac.    You'll  say,  a  let- 


What  Never  Happened  347 

ter  was  received.  Gennady  Gennadievich  will  explain 
that  the  letter  was  written  by  a  policeman.  You'll 
say,  'Tutushkin  informed  us.'  Vera  Andreyevna  will 
burst  out,  'The  Tutushkins  are  scoundrels.'  You'll  say, 
'He  spent  party  funds.'  And  Gruzdiev  will  retort, 
'Are  you  the  keeper  of  the  treasury?'  Wonderful 
minds!  And  they  are  the  only  ones  who  know.  And 
how  about  those  who  don't  know,  who  have  never  heard 
of  Tutushkin,  the  letter  and  the  money?  In  their  eyes 
Doctor  Berg  is  an  inviolable  member  of  the  committee. 
I  tell  you,  Itzek  will  turn  into  Isaac.  They  will  say,  a 
torture  chamber,  lynch  law,  inquisition.  Isn't  that  so? 
Won't  they  say  so?" 

"Let  them." 

"There,  excellent!  I  knew  you'd  say  that.  But 
think  a  minute.  Can  our  work  possibly  be  built  on  dis- 
trust? What  work  could  be  done  if  there  were  gossip 
about  the  committee  and  it  were  called  a  torture  cham- 
ber, if  people  suspected  me,  Arseny  Ivanovich — ^you? 
Well,  then,  it  follows  we  won't  try  Doctor  Berg." 

"But  this  is  merely  an  investigating  committee,  not  a 
court. ' ' 

"Oh,  my  God!"  Rosenstern  replied  in  irritation,  and 
his  eyes  sparkled.  "And  what  would  you  have? 
Do  you  want  a  spy?  A  counsel  for  defence?  Prose- 
cutors? Speeches?  Why,  we  are  the  Party.  We  have 
no  court  procedure.  We  can  only  examine  Doctor  Berg. 
And  we  must  have  him  examined.  It  is  imperative  that 
nobody — you  understand,  not  one  man — should  be  able 
even  to  dream  that  we  did  not  give  him  a  chance  to  de- 
fend himself,  and  that  Itzek  is  not  Itzek  but  Isaac. 
That's  all.  But  it's  impossible  to  prove  that  Doctor 
Berg  is  a  provocateur.    We  have  no  direct  evidence." 


348  What  Never  Happened 

"But  if  we  can't  prove  it,  then  we  can't  try  him. 
You  oifer  a  mere  formality.  Don't  you  believe  that 
Berg  is  a  provocateur?  You  need  no  proof,  no  trial, 
and  no  discussions.  Isn't  that  enough?  And  would 
an  examination  convince  us  of  his  guilt?  If  Berg  is 
no  fool,  he  will  be  able  to  arouse  our  sense  of  pity.  Or 
while  you  are  arguing  in  the  committee,  he  will  disap- 
pear, and  you'll  be  arrested.  And  you  know  from  his 
standpoint  Berg  will  be  right." 

Rosenstem  smiled. 

"He  won't  escape  us.  You  say,  it's  a  mere  formality. 
But  it's  not  a  formality,  it's  a  voluntary  concession  to 
the  needs  of  the  Party.  And  be  sure  that  acts  of 
treachery  can  never  be  proved.  Unless  the  provocateur 
confesses.  Well,  what  can  we  do?  You  surely  think" 
— he  made  a  long  pause  and  looked  steadily  into  Alek- 
sandr  's  eyes — ' '  that  I  'm  not  bold  enough,  that  I  dare  not 
take  the  responsibility?  That's  not  true.  Can't  you 
see  how  few  in  number  we  revolutionists  are,  how  few 
people  we  have  who  are  ready  to  do  anything?  But  if 
we  are  few,  we  will  grow  in  numbers.  We  will  have  to 
grow.  And  in  order  to  grow,  we  must  reckon  with  all 
these,  with  Vera  Andreyevna — yes,  even  with  Vera  An- 
dreyevna.  The  Party  can  only  thrive  on  respect,  on 
a  good  name,  on  the  influence  of  the  masses.  That's 
what  I  think.     And  you?" 

The  wretched  orchestra  kept  up  its  thin  music,  the 
waiters  scurried  about,  and  hoarse  voices  filled  the  place. 
Aleksandr  listened,  and  was  bored  by  Rosenstern's  sen- 
sible words. 

"I  joined  the  Party  to  do  some  work.  A  provocateur 
stands  in  my  way  and  I  am  helpless,  my  hands  are  tied. 
I  must  reckon  with  Vera  Andreyevna."    He  lighted  a 


What  Never  Happened  349 

cigarette,  and  said  harshly,  watching  the  bluish  rings 
of  smoke: 

"You  know,  this  trial  of  yours  is  a  comedy.  I  can't 
understand  what's  the  purpose  of  hypotheses,  argu- 
ments, and  perpetual  sessions.  What  difference  does  it 
make  to  me  what  the  Countess  Marie  Alekseyevna  is  go- 
ing to  say  ?  I  've  got  a  head  of  my  own.  Any  one  who  is 
not  a  revolutionist  should  not  remain  in  the  party;  any 
one  who  is  not  a  soldier  should  not  go  to  war.  I  think 
that  is  clear.     The  rest  is  red  tape." 

"What's  to  be  done  then?     Tell  me." 

"What's  to  be  done?    We  should  end  the  affair." 

"How?" 

"No  trial." 

"And  no  examination?" 

"No  examination." 

"But  that's  impossible." 

"Why?" 

"Because  the  committee  will  not  stand  for  it." 

They  were  both  silent.  Aleksandr  now  had  a  pre- 
sentiment that  Rosenstem  would  not  dare  to  kill  and 
deep  in  his  heart  still  cherished  the  hope  that  Tutushkin 
might  have  lied  and  Berg  was  not  working  for  the  secret 
service.  Doctor  Berg  would  not  be  killed,  Aleksandr 
now  felt,  and  the  vile  disgrace  would  go  unpunished. 
But  accustomed  to  obeying  he  stifled  his  thoughts. 

"I  am  a  member  of  the  Party.  I  submit  to  the  verdict 
of  the  Party.  I  will  go  to  the  examination.  But  tell  me, 
if  you  are  convinced  that  Doctor  Berg  is  a  provocateur, 
what  will  you  do?" 

Rosenstem  understood  what  was  troubling  Aleksandr. 
He  suppressed  a  smile.  His  black  youthful  eyes 
flashed. 


350  What  Never  Happened 

"In  that  case  we'll  act  according  to  martial  law." 

"And  what  will  Vera  Andreyevna  say?" 

"After  the  trial  she  will  not  say  anything." 

"Are  you  sure?" 

"Yes." 

They  parted  on  the  Nevsky.  Night  had  fallen. 
Among  rare  clouds  the  first  stars  shimmered.  Alek- 
sandr  drew  a  full  breath. 

"Yes,  he  will  keep  his  promise,"  he  thought  with  re- 
lief. "And  if  not,  Doctor  Berg  shall  be  killed  just  the 
same." 


CHAPTER  V 

DOCTOR  BERG  lived  on  Maly  Prospect,  in  a 
back   house   rented   in   his   own   name.    The 
back  stairs  were  wet,  smelled  of  cats,  kitchens 
and  unwashed  children's  clothes. 

' '  Strange !  If  he  lives  here,  then  what  does  he  do  with 
his  money?"  Rosenstern  asked  himself  in  embarrass- 
ment as  he  stopped  at  the  head  of  the  stairs.  Aleksandr 
firmly  pushed  the  bell  button. 

The  door  was  opened  by  Doctor  Berg.  On  seeing  his 
comrades,  he  gave  them  a  fixed  look  of  surprise,  un- 
mingled  with  fear,  as  if  he  were  trying  to  understand 
what  had  caused  their  sudden  visit.  It  had  never  hap- 
pened before  that  a  member  of  the  committee,  contrary 
to  discipline  and  the  interests  of  secrecy,  should  come 
to  his  house.  He  turned  slightly  pale,  rubbed  his  thin 
hands  together,  and  asked  carelessly: 

"Very  pleased  to  see  you.    What  is  it,  comrades?" 

** We've  come  in  the  name  of  the  committee." 

** Please  be  seated.    What  is  it?" 

The  room  in  which  Doctor  Berg  received  his  visitors 
was  low,  dark,  as  poor  as  a  student 's  room,  with  an  iron 
bed  at  the  wall  and  an  unpainted  floor.  Over  the  bed 
hung  a  portrait  of  Karl  Marx.  In  the  corner  on  a  set 
of  shelves  lay  a  few  books.  Aleksandr  opened  a  big 
annotated  volume,  and  absentmindedly  read  the  title: 
"The  Length  of  the  Working  Day  in  Shops  and  Fac- 
tories." 

361 


352  What  Never  Happened 

"Studying  the  labour  problem,"  he  thought  with  an 
unkind  smile.  This  beggarly  room,  the  scientific  books, 
Karl  Marx,  and  Doctor  Berg,  bald-headed,  and  correctly 
dressed,  seemed  like  derision  of  the  deceived  committee. 
Doctor  Berg  noticed  his  smile  and  adjusted  his  glasses 
nervously. 

"I'm  ready  to  listen,"  he  said  without  looking  at 
Aleksandr. 

Gennady  Gennadievich  burst  out  coughing,  caught  at 
his  breast,  and  began  to  mutter  incoherently  in  his  em- 
barrassment, pronouncing  the  words  with  difficulty,  as 
if  he  were  asking  forgiveness  beforehand. 

* '  A  trifle — mere  trifles.  How  should  I  explain  ?  You 
will  excuse  me,  my  silver  one.  You  see,  that  insinuat- 
ing letter — the  letter  you  read  at  the  meeting — well,  you 
know,  the  committee  has  decided  to  make  an  investiga- 
tion— and  honoured  us  greatly.  The  committee  ordered 
that  all  the  members  should  be  questioned — including 
you — to  prevent  talk.  Otherwise  rumours  will  be 
spread.  "We  knew  of  certain  things  and  we  paid  no  at- 
tention. We  received  a  letter  and  threw  it  into  the 
w^astebasket.  Oh,  those  rumours !  I  have  an  opinion  of 
my  own,  you  know.  I  am  convinced  the  whole  thing 
isn't  worth  a  broken  cent.  I  am  convinced  it's  an  in- 
trigue, an  adventure  of  Colonel  Schoen.  But  what  can 
you  do?"  He  sighed,  visibly  affected.  "The  committee 
thinks  otherwise.  Don't  assume  anything  bad,  for 
God's  sake,  but  just  answer  a  few  of  our  questions." 

Doctor  Berg  listened  very  quietlj'',  almost  indifferently, 
with  his  head  bent  and  his  hands  fingering  the  gold  chain 
on  his  breast.  Then  he  took  a  pencil  off  the  table,  leaned 
back  in  the  wicker  chair  he  was  sitting  in,  and  said  in 
a  loud  voice: 


What  Never  Happened  353 

"Very  well.  Then  I  am  to  understand  that  the  com- 
mittee suspects  me  of  being  a  provocateur?" 

Gennady  Genuadievich  waved  his  hands  in  depreca- 
tion.   Rosenstern  raised  his  thick  eyebrows. 

"Yes,  that's  exactly  what  you  are  to  understand. 
The  committee  suspects  you  of  being  a  provocateur." 

"Very  well.  In  that  case,  will  you  be  kind  enough 
to  submit  the  material  upon  which  you  base  your 
suspicions  ? " 

"The  material?" 

"Yes,  the  incriminating  material." 

"We  will  not  submit  it  to  you." 

"At  every  trial,"  Doctor  Berg  replied  didactically, 
tapping  the  table  with  his  pencil,  "even  at  a  court 
martial,  the  defendant  has  a  right  to  know  on  what 
grounds  the  accusation  is  based.  I  am  the  defendant. 
You  cannot  deprive  me  of  my  rights." 

"The  incriminating  material  shall  not  be  submitted." 

"Why?" 

' '  Because  we  are  not  a  court  and  not  a  department  of 
gendarmes." 

Doctor  Berg  wanted  to  reply  again,  but  changed  his 
mind.  He  frowned  as  if  in  pain,  laid  down  the  pencil 
and  rose  slowly  from  his  chair.  His  clean-shaven  face 
darkened.  He  went  over  to  Rosenstern,  leaned  towards 
him,  his  eyes  flashing,  and  looked  straight  into  his  eyes : 

"Listen,  Arkady  Borisovich.  I  can  understand  how 
Gruzdiev  or  Zalkind  or  the  other  comrades  who  don't 
know  me  should  express  such  opinions — should  give 
voice  to  such  a  terrible  suspicion.  But  you  know  me. 
It's  not  the  first  year  that  we  have  been  working  to- 
gether on  the  committee.  You  have  been  a  witness  to 
my  whole  life.    You  cannot,  you  dare  not,  doubt  me. 


354  What  Never  Happened 

Aren't  you — aren't  you  ashamed?  I  don't  say  it  in  re- 
proach. I  understand.  I  should  probably  have  acted 
the  same  way  in  your  place.  But — but — to  suspect  me ! 
Me — me!"  He  turned  away,  awkwardly  brushing  a 
tear  off  his  eyelashes. 

He  spoke  so  simply,  with  such  apparent  truthfulness, 
his  words  expressed  such  a  depth  of  outraged  feeling, 
and  his  weeping  seemed  so  sincere  that  Rosenstern  felt 
embarrassed. 

"What  if  I'm  mistaken?  What  if  Tutushkin  was 
lying?  What  if  Arseny  Ivanovich  is  right?"  He  cast 
a  disturbed  look  at  Aleksandr,  blue-eyed,  broad-shoul- 
dered, with  a  stem  set  face,  sitting  on  the  table  in  a 
position  of  military  erectness.  It  was  evident  that  he 
had  no  faith  in  Doctor  Berg  and  felt  contempt  for  the 
whole  doubtful  procedure.  He  caught  Rosenstern 's 
look,  smiled,  and  said  harshly: 

"All  this  has  no  bearing  on  the  case." 

"No  bearing  on  the  case?"  Doctor  Berg  turned  to  him 
in  quick  indignation.  "Here  is  what  I'll  tell  you, 
Mister  Lieutenant  Aleksandr  Nikolayevich  Bolotov." 
Berg's  voice  had  suddenly  grown  firm.  "I  don't  know 
when  you  joined  the  Party  and  what  you  have  done  for 
it.  Perhaps  you  have  done  a  good  deal.  I  don't  doubt 
it.  But  I  do  know  that  I — any  one  is  witness  to  it — 
have  been  working  for  the  Party  for  eight  years.  If  you 
want,  I'll  tell  you  the  story  of  my  life,  and  you  tell  us 
yours.  Do  you  want  me  to  tell  my  story?  We'll  see 
who  has  done  more  for  the  revolution,  who  has  worked 
more,  who  is  more  deserving  of  trust.  I  have  estab- 
lished twenty-three  printing  presses.  I  have  opened  all 
the  frontiers  from  Koenigsberg  to  Jasey.  I  have  or- 
ganized dozens  of  workmen's  circles.     I  have  been  a 


What  Never  Happened  355 

member  of  the  committee  for  the  last  five  years.  I  have 
been  working  unceasingly,  from  morning  to  night.  And 
if  the  Party  has  grown,  if  it  has  reached  lofty  heights,  I 
have  the  right  to  assert  that  I  am  one  of  those  who  have 
been  building  it  up.  And  now  you  come,  you,  who  have 
taken  part  in  the  campaign  of  Tsu  Shima,  you,  ignorant 
in  revolutionary  matters,  and  tell  me  it  has  no  bearing 
on  the  case,  you  hasten  to  accuse  me."  He  banged  his 
fist  on  the  table  and  began  to  pace  the  room  excitedly. 

"Yes,  you  hasten  to  accuse  me,"  he  continued  a  mo- 
ment later,  flushed  with  anger.  ''But  where  are  the 
proofs?  Where?  "Who  gave  you  the  right  to  sit  in 
judgment  if  you  cannot  prove  it?  Who?  The  Party? 
The  committee?  But  I  am  a  rightful  member  of  the 
committee,  too.  If  you  could  prove  it,  you  would  sub- 
mit the  incriminating  material  to  me.  Why  are  you 
silent?  You  have  the  floor,  not  I.  Not  you  are  the 
judges,  but  I — I  accuse.  I  say,  you  are  not  comrades, 
you  are  not  judges,  you  are  hypocrites,  you  slander  me, 
you  fling  mud  at  me.  Shame  on  you!  I  want  you  to 
explain ! ' ' 

Rosenstem  was  listening,  with  his  head  leaning  to  one 
side  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  Doctor  Berg  with  a  harsh  look 
of  revenge  and  anger.  His  embarrassment  had  passed. 
He  felt  ashamed  that  he  had  been  influenced  by  a  super- 
ficial feeling,  like  a  weak  child.  "And  the  gallows. 
And  the  Party?  And  terror?  No,  Tutushkin  is  not 
lying,  he  dares  not  lie,"  he  thought,  and  said  firmly: 

"This  has  no  bearing  on  the  case  either." 

* '  You  think  so  ?  You,  too,  Rosenstern  ?  What  is  left 
for  me  to  do?  Where,  oh  God,  is  truth?"  Doctor  Berg 
said  in  a  failing  voice,  but  immediately  regained  con- 
trol over  himself. 


356  What  Never  Happened 

"Very  well.  Then  submit  the  incriminating  material, 
please. ' ' 

"We  have  told  you,  we  will  submit  no  such  material." 

* '  In  that  ease  I  refuse  to  testify. ' ' 

Rosenstern  raised  his  eye-brows  contemptuously. 

"You  refuse?" 

"Yes." 

"Think  it  over,    "We  will  not  come  a  second  time." 

"I  have  thought  it  over  already." 

"And  you  refuse?" 

"Yes." 

"You  are  committing  a  crime." 

"Yes." 

"You  are  ruining  yourself." 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  know  what  is  awaiting  you?" 

Doctor  Berg  shook  his  head  indifferently,  acting  as 
if  it  were  the  same  to  him  whether  he  were  convicted  or 
exonerated,  whether  his  life  be  taken  or  spared.  His 
manner  seemed  to  indicate  that  the  terrible  disgrace  he 
had  just  gone  through  was  not  eradicable,  was  unheard 
of,  was  so  great  that  in  the  face  of  that  eternal  moment 
everything  else  looked  pale — life,  revolution,  death. 
Gennady  Gennadievich,  feeling  he  would  burst  into 
tears,  jumped  up,  ran  over  to  Doctor  Berg,  and  grasped 
his  hands. 

' '  Is  this  right  of  you  ?  What  are  you  doing,  my  silver 
one?  For  God's  sake.  You  are  disobeying  the  com- 
mittee! What  shall  we  report  at  the  meeting?  Listen 
to  me,  for  God 's  sake,  listen  to  me ! " 

Aleksandr  and  Rosenstern  rose,  and  went  toward  the 
door.  Berg  realized  the  committee  was  leaving  and  made 
an  irresolute  step  towards  them.    Looking  around  fev- 


What  Never  Happened  357 

erishly,  as  if  searching  for  help,  he  stood  still  a  moment, 
speechless.  Then  suddenly,  with  a  jerk  of  his  chin,  as  if 
somebody  had  struck  him  a  painful  blow,  he  shouted  in 
a  shrill  falsetto: 

"Rosenstem!  You  may  not  believe  me,  you  may  kill 
me — yes,  kill  me — but — but — I  give  you  my  word  of 
honour,  I  have  never  worked  for  the  police." 

He  suppressed  a  sob  and  turned  to  the  window. 
Aleksandr  to  his  surprise  saw  his  shoulders  tremble,  his 
bald  head  shiver,  and  his  back  sway.  He  was  sobbing 
noiselessly,  without  tears,  holding  on  to  the  window 
frame  and  paying  no  attention  to  the  others  in  the  room. 
His  long  narrow  body  in  its  fashionable  dark-brown 
coat  was  trembling  and  jerking,  his  teeth  were  chatter- 
ing, his  shaven  chin  was  shivering.  It  was  not  as  if  the 
famous  Doctor  Berg,  the  self-reliant  member  of  the  com- 
mittee were  crying,  but  a  helpless  little  boy.  He  was  so 
pitiful,  so  unhappy  and  weak,  his  misfortune  was  so 
oppressive,  the  merciless  verdict  was  so  terrible,  Gen- 
nady  Gennadievich  was  so  pale,  that  Rosenstern,  losing 
control  of  himself,  ran  hurriedly  out  of  the  room.  Ou 
the  stairs  Aleksandr  was  waiting  for  him  impatiently. 


CHAPTER  VI 

TUTUSPIKIN  succeeded  in  stealing  a  document, 
a  report  in  Doctor  Berg's  handwriting,  which 
made  it  clear  that  the  Party  was  in  the  power 
of  the  secret  service  and  a  spy  was  working  in  the  com- 
mittee. Aliosha  Gruzdiev,  deeply  agitated,  on  the  point 
of  suicide,  left  St.  Petersburg,  without  taking  leave  of 
anybody.  Gennady  Gennadievich  had  to  admit  that  his 
saving  hypothesis  w^as  without  foundation.  Vera  And- 
reyevna  wept  in  indignation  and  shouted  that  she  was 
disgraced.  Arseny  Ivanovich  groaned  and  advised  them 
to  appeal  to  the  convention.  And  though  the  comrades 
could  see  that  the  treachery  had  undermined  the  Party, 
just  as  a  scythe  cuts  into  the  grass,  and  though  every  one 
felt  conscious  in  his  heart  of  the  disgrace,  not  one  of 
them  thought  of  his  own  unconscious  guilt.  Doctor 
Berg's  treachery  seemed  to  be  a  misfortune  beyond  their 
control,  and  they  were  not  to  blame  if  a  hired  murderer 
found  his  way  into  the  committee.  And  since  the  Party 
had  many  members,  and  they  all  had  had  faith  in  Doctor 
Berg,  had  loved  him  and  worked  with  him,  none  of  them 
were  guilty  in  the  matter.  Neither  Arseny  Ivanovich, 
Zalkind,  Vera  Andreyevna,  nor  Aliosha  Gruzdiev  per- 
ceived that  treachery  was  not  an  accidental  evil  for 
"which  they  were  all  in  full  measure  responsible.  The 
faith  in  the  committee  was  shaken.  Disquieting  ru- 
mours sprang  up  that  Doctor  Berg  was  not  the  only 
traitor.  The  work  stopped.  The  comrades  were  suspi- 
cious of  one  another. 

358 


What  Never  Happened  359 

The  Party,  exhausted  by  arrests,  deprived  of  its  best 
workers,  disappointed  in  its  own  strength,  could  no 
longer  count  on  victor3^  Like  a  defeated  army,  with  a 
timid  commander  at  its  head,  the  Party  was  retreating 
without  giving  battle.  Men  and  women  who  had  been 
fighting  valiantly  the  day  before  were  now  giving  up 
their  arms.  Some  complained  of  the  committee,  others 
of  "violence  and  lack  of  control,"  some  of  treachery 
and  some  of  the  "indifference  of  the  masses."  But 
each  one  thought  he  was  performing  his  duty  con- 
scientiously. 

While  Rosenstem  was  following  up  Doctor  Berg, 
questioning  and  trying  him,  he  secretly  cherished  the 
hope  that  his  innocence  would  be  proved.  He  had 
worked  with  him  so  long,  had  become  so  accustomed  to 
respect  him,  and  had  grown  so  attached  to  him,  that  he 
could  not  conceive  of  his  meeting  a  violent  death.  And 
though  he  had  promised  Aleksandr  that  the  provocateur 
would  be  killed,  he  felt  that  he  lacked  the  courage  to 
keep  his  promise.  He  tried  to  convince  himself  that 
Doctor  Berg  was  not  a  comrade,  but  a  secret  service  spy, 
that  they  had  never  worked  hand  in  hand,  that  the 
Party  would  approve  of  the  legalized  killing.  And 
still  he  could  not  kill.  This  strange  duality  oppressed 
him.  He  realized  that  he  still  loved  Berg,  and  the  feel- 
ing bred  by  many  years  of  work  together  could  not  be 
influenced  by  evident  treachery,  could  not  be  reconciled 
to  fratricide.  So,  contemptuous  of  his  own  faintheart- 
edness, he  gave  Aleksandr  permission  in  the  name  of  the 
committee  to  "act  at  his  own  discretion."  Aleksandr 
met  Abram  and  Vanya  the  same  day.  Abram  was 
stirred. 

"Ha,  a  real  American  grafter,"  he  exclaimed  indig- 


360  What  Never  Happened 

nantly,  and  his  round,  laughing,  childish  face  was  dis- 
torted by  anger.  ' '  Five  years  in  the  committee !  In- 
tel-li-gentzia !  Well,  all  right.  We're  no  students. 
We're  workingmen.     Ha!     Rest  assured — " 

Aleksandr  looked  at  him  in  curiosity. 

"But  it's  a  capital  crime." 

"A  capital  crime?  What  if  it  is?  Very  important! 
And  what  did  you  expect  of  us — prayers  ? ' ' 

''But  the  Party  has  pronounced  the  verdict." 

"Well,  is  it  my  fault?"  Abram  said  angrily. 

Vanya  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

' '  The  wolf  was  getting  us ;  now  we  '11  get  the  wolf, ' '  he 
said  coldly  and  with  hatred  in  his  voice. 

Aleksandr  smiled. 

"Tomorrow?" 

"Yes,  tomorrow." 

"At  his  house?" 

"Yes,  at  his  house." 

"Well,  all  right.     Good  luck  to  you." 

On  the  sixth  of  May  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning 
Abram  was  nearing  Doctor  Berg's  house.  The  contem- 
plated murder  seemed  neither  difficult  nor  dangerous  to 
him.  He  gave  no  thought  to  it  that  he  might  be  arrested 
and  that  it  was  hardly  possible  to  escape  on  the  Maly 
Prospect.  "The  many-eyed  snake!  The  scoundrel! 
He  arrested  Ippolit.  ]\Ien  of  that  calibre  arrange  po- 
groms, violate  women,  kill  children,  burn  houses,  drive 
out  Jews.  Well,  all  right.  Ha!"  he  kept  on  muttering 
through  his  teeth.  He  found  the  house,  which  Aleksandr 
had  described  to  him,  and  mounted  the  stairs  slowly. 
On  the  lower  landing  a  padded  door  stood  wide  open. 
From  it  issued  steam,  hot  and  stuffy.  Washer-women 
were  laundering.    One  of  them,  good-looking,  well-built, 


What  Never  Happened  361 

her  face  red  from  the  heat,  turned  around  when  she 
heard  his  steps. 

"They're  working.  Ha!  They  are  not  the  intelli- 
gentzia," Abram  thought.  On  the  fifth  floor  he  saw  a 
card  on  the  door,  ''Doctor  of  Medicine  Fiodor  Fiodorov- 
ich  Berg,"  and  stopped,  breathing  heavily.  "A  cap- 
ital crime.  What  does  it  mean?  Ridiculous!"  He 
raised  the  trigger  of  his  revolver  and  was  going  to  ring 
the  bell,  but  suddenly  hesitated.  ''I'll  take  a  smoke." 
He  took  out  his  box  of  matches  and  slowly  lighted  a 
match.  He  smoked  passionately,  in  short  puffs,  listen- 
ing to  what  was  going  on  in  the  yard.  All  was  quiet 
around  him,  except  that  in  the  laundry  a  deep  contralto 
voice  was  singing  a  sad  song,  and  from  the  street  came 
the  sound  of  sweeping.  He  did  not  notice  how  the  cig- 
arette gave  out  and  the  paper  burned  his  fingers.  "And 
suppose  he  is  not  at  home?"  He  reached  for  the  bell 
with  his  trembling  hand.  "He'll  know  how  to  make 
pogroms  I  He  '11  know  how  to  hang  people !  Let  a  fire 
burn  him." 

He  waited  long,  and  felt  a  dry,  bitter  taste  in  his 
mouth,  as  he  clutched  his  revolver.  The  contralto  voice 
in  the  laundry  ceased  singing  and  somebody  laughed 
aloud.  From  the  second  floor  came  the  sound  of  loud 
quarrelling.     Abram  trembled  and  rang  again. 

The  lock  clicked.  On  the  threshold  behind  the  half- 
open  door  appeared  Doctor  Berg,  tall  in  his  brown  coat. 
He  looked  at  Abram  through  his  glasses  from  under 
sullen  brows. 

"What  do  you  wish?" 

"Don't  you  recognize  me?" 

"No.     What  do  you  want?     Who  are  you?" 

Abram  did  not  answer.    Fearing  the  door  might  shut, 


362  What  Never  Happened 

he  leaned  his  whole  weight  against  it.  Doctor  Berg 
turned  pale,  and  retreating,  let  him  enter  the  anteroom. 

They  were  standing  in  the  anteroom,  not  daring  to 
move,  not  daring  to  think,  nor  to  breathe,  ready  to  jump 
at  each  other  at  the  first  movement.  Abram  felt  Berg's 
uneaven  breathing  and  saw  his  wide-open,  sparkling  eyes. 
Neither  of  them  could  have  told  how  long  it  lasted.  At 
length  Doctor  Berg  repeated  his  question  in  a  hoarse 
whisper : 

"What  do  you  want?" 

At  the  same  instant  Abram  raised  his  revolver.  But 
he  had  no  time  to  shoot.  As  soon  as  he  saw  the  smooth 
barrel,  Berg  jumped  on  Abram,  catching  his  wrist  and 
squeezing  it  tightl}''.  Pressing  him  with  his  shoulders, 
breathing  heavily,  and  gradually  moving  away  from  the 
door,  he  tried  to  force  Abram 's  fingers  open  and  make 
him  drop  the  revolver.  Abram  felt  that  he  could  not 
release  himself.  He  freed  his  left  hand,  and  reached 
imperceptibly  under  his  vest,  and  took  out  a  large 
Finnish  knife.  He  swung  his  hand,  hitting  himself 
painfully  against  the  jamb  of  the  door,  and  struck  hard 
with  the  knife.  Something  heaved,  something  soft  and 
elastic  gave  way,  and  warm  blood  ran  over  his  fingers. 
Doctor  Berg  immediately  released  his  hold  on  the  re- 
volver. His  body  bent  up,  and  he  made  a  step  back- 
ward. He  groaned,  caught  at  his  heart,  and  trying  to 
keep  his  balance,  leaned  against  the  wall.  But  his  body 
swayed,  his  head  dropped,  and  he  fell  heavily  to  the 
floor.     His  left  side  was  bleeding. 

Abram  bent  over  him.  He  lay  on  his  side,  his  bony 
legs  under  him.  His  face  could  not  be  seen.  It  seemed 
to  Abram  that  he  was  still  alive.  He  was  seized  by  ter- 
ror.   Forgetting  himself,  his   eyes  horror-stricken,  he 


What  Never  Happened  363 

crouched  back  on  his  heels  and  began  to  strike  the  body 
rapidly  with  his  knife.  He  swung  the  blood-covered 
steel  and  brought  it  down  on  the  neck,  and  sides,  the 
back,  again  and  again,  without  pausing,  taking  revenge 
for  the  terror  he  had  just  gone  through.  He  did  not 
remember  how  many  wounds  he  inflicted.  He  thought 
he  heard  a  sound  at  the  door.  Mad  with  terror,  at  a 
loss  what  to  do,  fearing  somebody  might  ring  the  bell, 
he  threw  away  the  revolver  and  looked  around.  If 
Vanya  had  by  chance  entered  then,  he  would  not  have 
recognized  Abram.  It  was  not  the  good-natured,  smil- 
ing, familiar  Abram.  It  was  another  man,  an  entire 
stranger.  Big  drops  of  perspiration  ran  down  his  ex- 
pressionless face,  as  white  as  a  table  cover.  His  hair 
stuck  together,  his  legs  trembled,  and  his  back  was 
strangely  bent.  He  stopped  to  listen.  There  was  not 
a  soul  around.  Trying  not  to  look  at  the  mutilated 
corpse,  he  passed  into  the  bedroom.  He  was  troubled 
by  the  annoying  thought :  "I  ought  to  wash  up — wash 
up — "  In  a  corner  near  the  bed  stood  a  wash-stand, 
but  Abram  did  not  see  it.  He  walked  about  the  room  as 
if  he  were  blind,  searching  in  all  the  corners,  leaving 
bloodstains  everywhere  and  without  finding  a  drop  of 
water.  He  did  not  have  the  courage  to  go  through  all 
the  rooms,  and  return  to  the  anteroom. 

And  suddenly  he  was  seized  by  a  desire  to  get  away, 
by  the  blind  instinct  of  an  animal  to  save  itself.  He 
found  his  cap  with  difficulty  and  pulled  it  over  his  fore- 
head. He  forgot  about  his  knife  and  revolver.  He 
came  out  stealthily  on  the  staircase  and  listened  leaning 
over  the  railing. 

"There  is  nothing  in  the  world  I  have  need  of,"  the 
contralto  voice  was  singing.     Abram  shook  his  head  and 


364  What  Never  Happened 

began  to  descend  the  stairs,  lie  came  out  into  the 
yard.  At  the  garbage  pit  the  hostler  was  sweeping  up 
some  horse  manure.  He  was  working  with  his  back  to 
Abram  and  did  not  notice  him.  Abram  hid  his  face  in 
his  collar  and  walked  away  rapidly.  Beyond  the  gate 
was  the  street.  He  called  a  hack  and  ordered  him  to 
drive  to  the  Nevsky  Prospect,  and  it  was  not  until  he 
reached  the  Nikolayevich  Bridge  and  beheld  the  Neva 
sparkling  in  the  sun,  that  he  realized  there  was  no  dan- 
ger. He  pulled  the  leather  apron  over  him,  so  as  to 
cover  the  blood-stains,  and  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief,  of 
happiness,  almost  of  innocence.  '*So  you  are  killed 
just  the  same!  Ha!  You'll  know  how  to  make  po- 
groms.   You'll  know  how  to  kill  Jews!" 


CHAPTER  VII 

AT  Volodya's  death  his  squad  went  to  pieces  like 
an  iron  chain  under  the  blows  of  a  hammer. 
Its  members  scattered  all  over  Russia.  "Sys- 
tematic partisan  terror"  had  ended  in  defeat.  Some 
of  the  men  turned  to  robbery,  others  left  the  work  en- 
tirely, and  only  an  imperceptible  minority  still  kept 
their  determination  to  finish  Volodya's  work.  At  the 
head  of  these  stood  Herman  Freze.  He  saw  clearly  that 
the  struggle  was  hopeless  and  the  government  was  vic- 
torious. But  that  did  not  deter  him.  He  thought  it 
was  his  duty,  the  duty  of  an  irreconcilable  terrorist,  to 
remain  at  his  glorious  post  to  the  end.  And  though  he 
felt  he  was  alone  and  powerless,  without  the  committee 
to  support  him,  he  continued  to  build  his  tower  of  Babel 
with  bold,  inexhaustible  patience.  During  the  few 
months  he  had  grown  old  and  bald  and  had  lost  his  con- 
fident bearing — the  self-reliant  manner  of  a  well-to-do 
student.  He  travelled  over  the  whole  Volga  region  and 
the  south  in  the  hope  of  finding  fighting  anarchists.  He 
found  nobody,  and  to  his  deep  regret  had  to  accept  the 
deserter  Svistkov,  who  had  been  expelled  by  Volodya 
for  drunkenness.  Gerasim  Svistkov,  of  the  regiment  of 
grenadiers,  a  six-foot  giant,  with  white  hair  and  white 
moustaches,  resembling  Wilhelm  II,  was  filled  with  re- 
morse for  his  great  sin.  He  swore  he  would  give  up 
drink,  and  was  true  to  his  oath.  This  Svistkov,  and  the 
tramp,  jester  and  singer  from  Sormov,  Nikolay,  nick- 
named, "Kolka  the  bum,"  became  Freze 's  trusted  as- 

365 


366  What  Never  Happened 

sistants.  But  the  work  was  not  progressing.  The  at- 
tempts at  assassination  were  not  successful.  Yet  the 
fewer  the  hopes,  the  finner,  the  more  diligent,  and  the 
more  energetic  did  the  band  become.  Freze  knew  he 
would  be  hanged.  But  he  was  not  afraid  of  death.  All 
he  thought  of  was  how  to  fulfil  Volodya's  dream  of 
creating  a  powerful,  invincible  system  of  terror.  At 
the  end  of  May  he  came  from  Moscow  to  St.  Petersburg 
to  seek  the  means  of  dynamiting  the  secret  service. 
Kolka  the  Bum  and  Svistkov  came  with  him. 

After  he  had  stopped  in  the  Hotel  Reef  and  had 
turned  over  for  registration  purposes  his  false  passport 
made  out  by  Kolka  in  the  name  of  a  Polish  nobleman, 
Dovgello,  Freze  went  to  the  Zabalkansky  Prospect. 
He  turned  instinctively  to  Fontanka  Street.  He  had 
not  been  in  St.  Petersburg  since  Volodya  had  arranged 
the  expropriation.  And  now  he  was  being  pulled  by  a 
hidden  force  to  Great  Podyacheskaya,  to  that  sacred 
spot  where  Konstantin  had  thrown  the  first  bomb  and 
the  band  had  "earned"  its  first  money.  The  day  was 
cloudy  and  close.  A  light  summer  rain  was  falling. 
Freze  walked  along  the  wet  sidewalk  past  the  once 
familiar  houses.  One  of  them,  the  house  of  merchant 
Beliakov,  a  square,  cold-looking,  yellow  barracks  of  a 
building,  with  iron  balconies  on  the  second  floor  and  a 
greengrocer's  shop  below,  had  particularly  stuck  in  his 
memory.  In  front  of  this  house,  about  five  yards  from 
the  entrance,  had  lain  the  canvas  bags  that  had  been 
thrown  upon  the  pavement,  and  there  the  decisive 
battle  had  taken  place.  Freze  recalled  how  a  tall 
bearded  Cossack  outside  on  a  little  horse  had  raised 
his  rifle  and  aimed  at  his  breast.    He  recalled  how  at 


What  Never  Happened  367 

the  same  moment  he  had  levelled  his  revolver,  how  his 
hand  had  jerked  and  his  shoulder  had  recoiled.  The 
rifle  clattered  to  the  pavement.  The  frightened  horse, 
showing  his  teeth,  snorting,  and  tossing  his  head,  stood 
up  on  his  hind  legs.  And  Freze  also  recalled  how 
Proklior's  trotter,  a  fine  grey  horse  with  white  spots, 
was  snorting,  and  how  Prokhor,  with  his  peasant  face 
and  worried  eyes,  turned  in  the  saddle  and  shouted 
something  to  Volodya. 

"Prokhor  is  gone — and  Volodya — and  Olga — and  Kon- 
stantiu — and  Mitya — and  Yelizar.  A  cemetery,  for- 
saken graves — and  nobody  sheds  tears  over  them,"  he 
thought  anxiously.  Crossing  the  street  he  entered  a 
saloon  familiar  to  him  in  its  minutest  details.  In  that 
dark  saloon  he  and  the  Fly  had  awaited  Volodya  a  quar- 
ter of  an  hour  before  he  was  killed.  The  same  old  bar- 
tender who  had  met  them  a  year  ago  greeted  them  now, 
and  the  same  active  boy  wiped  the  table  with  a  dirty 
towel.  Freze  seated  himself  and  concealed  his  face  be- 
hind a  newspaper.  At  any  minute,  it  seemed  to  him, 
the  door  would  open  and  pock-marked,  long-haired  Kon- 
stantin  in  an  officer's  mantle  with  a  bomb  hidden  beneath 
would  enter  and  would  say,  just  as  he  had  on  that  bril- 
liant April  morning: 

"Good  morning.  Are  you  here?  And  where  is  our 
Vladimir  Ivanovich?" 

It  seemed  to  him  that  the  sound  of  hoofs  would  begin 
to  rumble,  and  from  under  the  hood  of  the  carriage  a 
rakish  hat  would  appear.  "Olga,"  he  thought,  "Olga. 
"Why  did  she  shoot  herself  ?  And  if  she  hadn  't  shot  her- 
self ?  She  would  have  been  hanged.  Do  they  ever  show 
mercy?    My  God,  there  isn't  a  soul.    All  have  died — 


368  What  Never  Happened 

all."  He  crumpled  the  newspaper  up  and  rose.  The 
hot  sun  sparkled  between  the  clouds  and  played  on  the 
street  lamps. 

"Right  here,  at  this  lamp,  lay  Konstantin  dying." 
Freze  dropped  his  head  on  his  chest  and  walked  slowly 
back  to  Fontanka  Street. 

At  the  Yusupov  Park  somebody  called  his  name : 

"Herman  Karlovich!     Is  that  you?" 

Before  him  stood  Epstein.  He  stooped,  his  face  was 
of  a  greenish  pallor,  and  blue  goggles  covered  his  eyes. 
He  wore  a  black  hat,  a  short  light  coat,  and  bright  yellow 
gloves.  He  would  never  have  been  taken  for  a  revolu- 
tionist, an  expropriator  and  anarchist,  but  some  mer- 
chant's careless,  idle  son.  And  though  he  had  disgrace- 
fully deserted  the  band  and  had  gone  to  Paris,  Freze  was 
heartily  glad  to  see  him.  He  held  out  his  hand  to 
Epstein  and  smiled  affably.  Freze  smiled  only  with  his 
eyes.  His  narrow,  stony  German  face  always  remained 
immobile. 

"Are  you  back  from  Paris  long?" 

"Don't  you  know?"  Epstein  exclaimed  in  surprise, 
as  if  expecting  Freze  to  know  the  exact  time  of  his  ar- 
rival. "Direct  from  the  station.  Well,  how  are  af- 
fairs?" 

"What  affairs?" 

** Yours,  of  course." 

"Mine?    My  affairs  are  not  in  very  good  shape." 

''Why  not?" 

"There  are  only  a  few  men  left  of  the  old  squad." 

''Why  only  a  few?" 

Freze  sighed: 

"I  don't  know." 

**You  don't  know.    Who  does  know,  then?     God  per- 


What  Never  Happened  369 

haps?"  Epstein  looked  at  Freze  sternly.  "It  means 
that  the  comrades  cannot  work." 

"Perhaps." 

"Not  perhaps,  but  surely.     If  Volodya  were  alive — " 

"Well,  Volodya  was  different,"  Freze  replied  re- 
luctantly. 

"What  was  Volodya?"  Epstein  replied  angrily. 
' '  Why  are  we  worse  than  Volodya  ?  Have  you  read  my 
article  on  the  worst  and  the  best?  No?  I  wrote  that 
a  general  clean-up  is  necessary — you  understand  ?  a  gen- 
eral clean-up.  We  must  have  a  spontaneous,  universal, 
all-embracing,  ruthless  terror.  There  are  two  races  of 
mankind,  the  race  of  exploiters  and  the  race  of  ex- 
ploited. The  exploiters  are  by  heritage  wicked,  greedy, 
and  predatorj^  It  is  unthinkable  to  associate  with  them. 
They  must  be  annihilated.  You  understand,  annihi- 
lated. All  of  them  to  the  last  man.  If  there  are  a  hun- 
dred thousand  of  them,  we  must  annihilate  a  hundred 
thousand.  If  there  are  a  million  of  them,  we  must  an- 
nihilate  a  million.  If  a  hundred  million,  a  hundred 
million  must  be  annihilated.  We  must  not  stop  before 
anything.  And  I — I,  Ruvim  Epstein,  know  how  it 
should  be  done.  I  came  just  to  find  you.  I  will  tell 
you  how  we  must  work.  We  shall  win  the  world.  We 
shall  have  the  revolution.     No?" 

Night  was  falling.  A  transparent  violet  fog  wove 
itself  about  the  Neva,  and  in  the  east,  beyond  the  Baltic 
factor^',  the  sky  became  overcast  with  dark  clouds.  A 
fresh  wind  sprang  up.  It  was  getting  cold.  Peals  of 
thunder  sounded.  Epstein  buttoned  up  his  coat  and 
continued  rapturously- : 

"  It  is  a  great  misfortune  that  people  cannot  free  them- 
selves of  prejudice.     Somehow  all  are  afraid  of  free- 


370  What  Never  Happened 

dom.  Somehow  nobody  dares  to  take  any  risks.  You 
think  it  is  not  so?  Oh,  I've  always  said,  what  a  childish 
fairytale  it  is  that  one  must  think  of  laws!  Where  are 
they,  those  laws  ?  I  laugh  at  all  laws.  I  am  a  law  unto 
myself.  Have  you  read  Nietzsche?  You  must  read 
him.  Remember,  we  want  to  fill  one  another  with  ad- 
miration. Yes,  with  admiration.  Olga  understood. 
She  alone  understood  that  for  a  freeman  all  is  permis- 
sible. A  man — the  name  is  full  of  pride.  You  under- 
stand— pride !  Well,  and  we  ?  It 's  ridiculous !  I  come 
from  Paris.  I  thought  I'd  find  you  and  you  would  tell 
me  something  very  pleasant.  Instead  you  say  affairs 
are  in  a  bad  way.  Why?  Because  you  dare  not  risk 
putting  them  into  good  shape. 

Epstein  was  silent  a  moment,  then  he  raised  his  thin 
weak  hand  in  a  yellow  glove,  and  began  to  recite  loudly 
and  with  inspiration : 

"Beyond  the  limits  of  the  finite, 
High  in  the  endless  radiant  spaces, 
Rebellious  spirits  unafraid, 
We  fly  in  search  of  happiness, 
In  search  of  joy  that  is  complete. 
Light  as  the  air  we  soar  and  soar, 
And  scarcely  move  our  wings,  ne'er  halting. 
The  world  and  all  therein  embracing. 
We'll  grasp  with  glee  all  it  contains. 
With  bold  and  hard  endeavor  we'll  make 
For  lofty  heights  yet  unattained. 
Far  from  the  narrow  haunts  of  earth 
We'll  fly  to  realms  of  undreamed  wonders. 
To  worlds  of  rare  and  hidden  beauty." 

Freze  wrinkled  his  high  white  forehead.  Epstein's 
words  about  beauty,  Nietzsche,  about  the  worst  and  the 
best,  about  an  abyss  and  daring  seemed  void  of  aU  sense, 


What  Never  Happened  371 

the  babbling  of  a  school-boy.  He  recalled  Volodya's 
harsh  estimate:  "The  woodcock  is  small,  but  it  makes 
a  big  noise."  His  feeling  of  pleasure  suddenly  died  out. 
Glancing  at  Epstein  with  an  up-and-down  look  of  con- 
tempt, he  asked  wearily: 

"Why  are  you  saying  all  this?" 

"What  do  you  mean,  why?"  Epstein  replied  excit- 
edly. "It  means  a  renascent  beautiful  life,  an  untiring 
struggle  for  light,  and  consequently,  for  revolution. 
How  can  you  fail  to  understand  ?  Don 't  we  revolution- 
ists pine  for  beauty  ?  For  universal  harmony  ?  For  the 
annihilation  of  two-legged  scorpions?  For  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  bourgeoisie?  Or  don't  we?  Perhaps  beauty 
is  not  in  daring?  'In  our  enmity  we  must  be  creators 
of  images  and  phantasms  and  with  their  aid  we  must 
declare  war  on  one  another.'  So  spoke  Nietzsche.  And 
you?  What  will  you  say  to  it?  I  must  warn  you.  I 
am  convinced  that  for  the  success  of  the  revolution  one 
must  dare  anything,  without  exception.  That  is  the 
only  way  to  achieve  good  results.  Perhaps  you  think,  I 
just  talk  this  way  ? "  He  began  to  whisper  mysteriously, 
leaning  one  shoulder  towards  Freze.  "I  must  tell  you 
one  thing,  a  secret,  one  plan  that  I  have  thought  out, 
tried  out  and  accepted.  You  will  be  convinced  that  a 
clever  man  may  do  anything  and  that  I  know  how  to 
carry  on  terror.  You  will  be  convinced  when  we  are 
successful.     No  ? " 

Freze  was  lost  in  thought.  Epstein,  his  body  bent,  his 
face  pale,  his  dark  glasses  over  his  eyes,  seemed  to  him 
so  foolish,  insignificant  and  ridiculous  that  he  did 
not  care  to  listen  to  his  ''secret."  But  suppressing  his 
uneasy  feeling,  he  said  lazily: 

"If  you  have  something  to  tell  me  useful  to  terror,  I 


372  What  Never  Happened 

am  ready  to  listen.     But  the  street  is  not  a  convenient 
place  to  talk  in." 

"Yes,  yes,  of  course,"  Epstein  rejoined  excitedly. 
"Let's  go  to  the  Islands!  Driver,  to  the  Islands!" 
Without  giving  Freze  a  chance  to  say  a  word,  he  got  into 
the  hack  and  ordered  the  driver  to  go  to  the  night 
restaurant  Alcazar. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

EPSTEIN  entered  the  noisy,  brightly  lighted 
Alcazar  with  firm,  heavy  steps.  He  imme- 
diately ordered  a  private  room,  and  when  the 
waiters  brought  in  the  supper  he  drank  a  glass  of  wine, 
lit  a  cigarette  and  began  to  talk: 

"Won't  you  drink?  The  wine  isn't  bad.  Tell  me, 
have  you  considered  why  terror  was  unsuccessful,  or 
rather,  may  be  unsuccessful?  No?  Were  there  few 
workers?  Too  little  courage?  Lack  of  money?  Lack 
of  discretion?  Strange!  There  was  enough  of  every- 
thing. I  tell  you,  the  only  thing  was  there  was  too 
little  daring.  Ah,  what  sentimental  tales!  'I  rejoice 
in  great  sin,'  spake  Zarathustra,  *as  my  great  consola- 
tion. Such  things,  however,  are  not  said  for  long  ears. 
.  .  .  These  are  fine,  far-away  things:  at  them  sheep's 
claws  shall  not  grasp !  Think  ye  that  I  am  here  to  put 
right  what  ye  have  put  wrong?  ...  Or  show  you  rest- 
less, miswandering,  misclimbing  ones,  new  and  easier 
foot  paths  ? '  Do  you  remember  ?  Well,  that 's  just  why 
I  have  come.  You  understand?  I  can  show  you  the 
way.  You  understand,  I  can  point  it  out  to  you.  Have 
you  heard  about  Doctor  Berg?" 

Freze  looked  at  Epstein  and  yawned.  The  room  filled 
with  smoke  and  the  smell  of  cigars.  The  annoying 
sounds  from  the  orchestra,  the  miserable  looking  Epstein 
in  dark  glasses  and  his  bombast  tired  him  out.  He 
passed  his  hands  over  his  face,  and  thinking  about  his 

373 


374  .What  Never  Happened 

own  affairs,  the  squad  and  the  contemplated  assassina- 
tions, answered  indifferently: 

' '  Yes,  I  've  heard  about  Doctor  Berg. ' ' 

"Well?" 

"Nothing." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Nothing.    A  provocateur  was  killed." 

' '  Strange !  That 's  not  the  point.  I  ask  you,  is  terror 
possible  if  a  provocateur  is  a  member  of  the  committee  ? 
Well?  Of  course,  it's  impossible.  You  won't  contra- 
dict that  ?  I  ask  you,  is  terror  possible  if  we  sheepsheads 
are  not  going  to  fight?" 

"Fight  what?" 

"What?     Treachery,  of  course!" 

"But  how  can  we  fight  it?" 

"That's  just  what  I've  come  for.  I  have  a  faultless 
plan.  I'll  show  you  the  way.  You  must  understand 
that  till  the  police  know  everything,  terror  cannot  be 
successful.  The  only  way  to  fight  them  is  to  enter  the 
secret  service.  Isu  't  that  clear  to  you  ?  Must  I  explain 
it  to  you?  Chew  it  for  you?  Make  it  clear  to  you? 
In  the  party  of  the  'People's  Freedom'  there  was  a 
precedent  that  gave  excellent  results.  While  Klietochni- 
kov  served  in  the  secret  service,  Zheliabov  was  out  of 
danger.  And  then,  you  know,  you  must  imagine  what 
it  means  to  serve  in  the  secret  service.  Imagine  what 
a  man  must  feel  who  has  dared  to  do  it!  What  emo- 
tions, what  sensations  he  must  go  through !  To  work  for 
terror  and  at  the  same  time  to  work  for  the  secret 
service!  To  know  everything  that  is  going  on  on  both 
sides  of  the  barricade !  To  know  that  he  holds  the  fate 
of  Russia  in  his  hands!  The  fate  of  Russia!  What 
beauty!    What  grandeur!     To  walk  at  the  edge  of  the 


What  Never  Happened  375 

precipice  and  to  strive  for  'radiant  infinity'!  Here's 
the  abyss  of  the  underworld !  Here 's  the  abyss  of  the 
heights!  No?  Just  think!  Just  think  of  it.  Well, 
what  do  you  say  ? ' ' 

Epstein  jumped  up,  his  face  flushed,  his  head  raised 
proudly. 

Freze  was  no  longer  indifferent.  He  listened  to  him 
with  curiosity.  "Is  he  babbling,  or  not?  He's  bab- 
bling, of  course." 

He  frowned  and  said  reluctantly : 

''If  you  ask  me  my  opinion,  I  must  tell  you  that  we 
must  not  join  the  secret  service  in  any  circumstances." 

"Why?     Why?     Explain  why!" 

"Because  it  is  treachery." 

"Treachery?  Ridiculous!  Sentimental  fairy  tales! 
Ancient  commandments !  A  moral  imperative !  Law ! 
But  how  in  God's  name  can  you  call  it  treachery  if  I 
say,  not  for  myself,  but  for  terror,  for  the  revolution? 
Well,  and  the  law.  What  is  the  law?  Do  you  remem- 
ber? 'Oh,  send  me  madness,  ye  dwellers  in  heaven! 
Send  me  delirium  and  convulsions,  sudden  light  and 
sudden  darkness,  give  me  fever,  make  me  howl  and 
creep,  like  an  animal.  I  have  killed  the  law.  If  I  am 
not  higher  than  the  law,  then  I  am  the  lowliest  of  men.' 
Thus  wrote  Friedrich  Nietzsche.  Well  and  I,  Ruvim 
Epstein,  tell  you  this:  a  free  man  is  higher,  immeasur- 
ably higher,  than  the  highest  law.  A  free  man  must  not 
howl  and  creep.     I  jeer  at  the  foolish  law!" 

He  went  over  to  the  table  and  drank  another  glass  of 
wine.  His  lengthy  quotations  from  Nietzsche,  his  un- 
certain words,  his  exaggerated  ease  and  forced  smile 
were  signs  to  Freze  that  Epstein  was  concealing  some- 
thing he  was  afraid  to  tell.     "And  suppose  he  is  not 


376  What  Never  Happened 

babbling?  Suppose?"  he  thought  with  apprehension, 
and  said: 

"That's  all  very  well.  But  you  surely  have  not  come 
from  Paris  to  lecture  on  morals," 

Epstein  did  not  answer  immediately.  He  seated  him- 
self in  a  low  arm-chair  and  looked  at  Freze  long  and 
silently.  In  the  low  chair  he  looked  still  shorter,  still 
weaker  and  more  helpless.  In  the  main  saloon  the  or- 
chestra was  playing  noisily.  In  the  hall  waiters  were 
whispering  to  each  other.  Epstein  coughed  irreso- 
lutely : 

"I  must  tell  you  something." 

"I  am  listening." 

"Well — I — I — you  know  my  views?  I  have  come  to 
the  conclusion  that  for  the  benefit  of  terror  it  is  neces- 
sary to  join  the  secret  service." 

"And?" 

"And — and — I'll  tell  it  to  you,  Freze.  You  are  wise, 
you  won't  misunderstand  me.  I  tell  you,  terror  can't 
be  successful  unless  the  secret  service  stops  hampering 
us.  Am  I  not  right?  "Well,  if  that  is  so,  somebody 
must  be  daring  enough  to  join  the  secret  service.  A 
strong  man  will  have  the  courage.  A  weak  man  will 
not.  I  am  a  free  man,  I  recognize  no  authority.  Don't 
you  agree  with  me?  Maybe  you  think  it's  not  the  right 
thing  to  do?  Oh,  I  knew  that  beforehand.  I  knew 
nobody  would  understand  me.  Loneliness !  Oh,  my  fa- 
therland is  loneliness."  He  clutched  his  head  with  both 
hands.  "Now  I  come  to  you  in  tears.  I  ask  you,  do 
you  want  terror  to  be  successful  ?  Do  you  want  to  come 
out  victorious  ?  Do  you  want  to  work  with  me  ?  Think 
it  over,  Freze." 

Epstein  rose  in  expectation  of  an  answer.    His  sunken 


What  Never  Happened  377 

cheeks  and  lips  trembled.  Though  Freze  could  see  he 
was  not  joking  and  had  really  sold  himself  to  the  secret 
service,  he  could  not  believe  the  degrading  confession. 
Without  raising  his  eyes  and  still  incredulous,  in  fear 
of  hearing  the  irreparable  word,  he  asked : 

**You — you  are  working  in  the  secret  service?" 

"Yes." 

''How  long?" 

"Two  months." 

Freze  turned  pale  and  was  silent.  At  last  his  truth- 
ful soul  took  in  the  whole  fact,  that  this  man  Epstein 
was  not  a  friend,  not  a  comrade,  not  a  well-wisher  of 
lost  Olga,  but  a  secret  service  hireling,  a  spy.  ''Who 
betrayed  Volodya?"  The  thought  entered  his  mind  like 
a  sharp  blade.     Clenching  his  teeth,  he  asked  harshly: 

' '  How  much  do  you  get  ? ' ' 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

*  *  How  much  do  you  get  ? ' ' 

"Herman  Karlovich,  what's  this?  A  cross  examina- 
tion? I  won't  answer  you.  You  have  no  right  to  ques- 
tion me  like  that." 

"You  won't  answer  me?" 

"I  won't.  I  spoke  to  you  like  a  comrade,  and  you — " 
Epstein  stole  an  angry  glance  at  Freze,  and  flushed  up. 
"This  is  the  devil  knows  what!     This  is  insolence!" 

"You  shall  answer  me." 

"Well,  all  right.    Five  hundred  rubles." 

"A  month?" 

"Yes,  a  month." 

"Where  is  the  money?" 

"What  do  you  mean?  I  can't  understand  you. 
What  is  it  ?     What  do  you  want  ? ' ' 

"Where  is  the  money?" 


378  What  Kever  Happened 

Freze  slowly  and  quietly  put  his  right  hand  into  his 
pocket.  Epstein  noticed  the  movement.  He  trembled 
and  quickly  produced  his  pocketbook  and  threw  it  on  the 
table. 

''Here  are  three  hundred  rubles.  There,  count  the 
money  if  you  want  to." 

' '  Three  hundred  ?     And  the  rest  1 ' ' 

"I  don't  understand.  What  do  you  want  me  to  do? 
Save  my  money?  Hide  it  in  the  ground?  Or  what? 
\Yell?" 

"Then  you  live  on  your  pay?" 

"Yes,  I  live  on  it." 

"See  here,  Epstein,"  Freze  said  glumly.  An  intox- 
icating joy  was  mounting  in  him.  The  idea  occurred 
to  him  to  take  revenge  on  account  of  Volodya.  It  would 
be  a  revenge  fitting  and  worthy  of  him.  Epstein  no 
longer  seemed  foolish,  powerless,  or  pitiful.  Now  he 
assumed  the  shape  of  a  sly,  wicked  enemy  whom  it 
would  be  a  crime  to  spare. 

"See  here,  Epstein,  I  am  compelled — " 

"Stop  your  joking,  Herman  Karlovich,  won't  you?" 
Epstein  began  excitedly.  "AVhat  do  you  mean?  You 
talk  as  if  I  were  a  provocateur!  It's  ridiculous — ab- 
surd. I  have  come  here  to  work  for  terror.  I  have 
joined  the  secret  service  for  that  one  purpose.  Do  you 
think  I  enjoy  working  there?  You  have  not  yet  con- 
vinced me  that  I  have  made  a  mistake.  Convince  me. 
I  am  a  free  man.  I  am  not  afraid  of  anything.  You 
can't  prevent  me  from  serving  the  revolution.  This  is 
violence.  I  protest.  "What  difference  does  it  make  that 
I  have  been  receiving  money  ?  Wliat  is  money  anyway  ? 
Why  shouldn't  I  take  it?  Must  I  idealize  things? 
Create  suspicion?     Where  is  the  proof?     Well?" 


What  Never  Happened  379 

Freze  heard  his  fiery  speech  with  indifference.  When 
Epstein,  choking  with  emotion  and  wiping  his  eyes  with 
his  handkerchief,  dropped  in  exhaustion  into  a  low  arm- 
chair, Freze  repeated  coldly: 

"Taking  into  consideration  that  you  are  a  provoca- 
teur, I  shall  be  compelled — " 

"Compelled  to  what?" 

"I  shall  be  compelled  to  put  one  condition." 

"What  condition?  What  has  a  condition  to  do  with 
it?  Well!  I  want  to  be  of  benefit  to  him,  I  tell  him 
what  things  to  do  and  how  to  do  them  in  order  to  make 
terror  effective,  and  he  threatens  me.  It's  madness, 
foolishness,  insanity!  What  do  you  think?  I  will  call 
for  help." 

Freze  wrinkled  his  bare  white  forehead  and  slowly 
drew  his  revolver  from  his  pocket.  He  laid  it  near  him 
on  the  table-cloth  and  smiled. 

"If  you  want  to  call  for  help,  why  don't  you?  My 
condition  is  that  you  must  kill  Colonel  von  Schoen. 
Otherwise — otherwise — I  shall  be  constrained  to — kill 
you. ' ' 

Epstein  rose  with  difficulty  from  his  chair.  He 
stretched  his  thin  neck  and  glanced  idly  round  the  room. 
The  doors  were  closed,  and  between  him  and  Freze  was 
the  table  covered  with  bottles.  The  room  was  very  light, 
very  warm,  and  smelled  strongly  of  wine.  On  the  white 
table-cloth  lay  the  loaded  black  revolver.  Epstein 
heaved  a  deep  sigh,  and  almost  losing  consciousness,  fell 
back  into  his  chair.  As  if  in  sleep  he  heard  the  even 
voice : 

"Do  you  agree,  or  not?" 

He  made  no  reply.  He  forgot  where  he  was,  what 
was  going  on,  who  was  questioning  him,  why  the  re- 


380  What  Never  Happened 

volver  was  sparkling,  and  why  the  electric  lights  were 
shining.  All  he  understood  was  that  Freze  would  not 
let  him  go,  that  his  life  was  coming  to  an  end,  that  in 
ten  minutes  he  would  die  a  disgraceful  death.  He  was 
certain  Freze  would  shoot  him,  shoot  him  there  in  that 
chamhre  separe  smelling  of  cigars  and  wine,  that  it 
would  be  futile  to  ask  for  mercy,  futile  to  cry,  to  shout, 
to  call  for  help,  to  argue,  or  even  to  struggle.  "Without 
thinking  what  he  was  doing,  without  knowing  what  to 
do,  he  nodded  weakly,  and  crossed  his  hands  on  his 
chest  in  an  attitude  of  self-defence,  which  was  an  old 
habit  of  his  childhood.  Freze  looked  at  him  in  hatred 
and  put  his  revolver  back  into  his  pocket. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  next  day  Epstein  woke  up  late,  at  eleven 
o'clock.  The  familiar  hotel-room,  the  dusty 
rug,  with  its  intricate  pattern,  the  yellow 
closet  with  the  mirror  and  the  muslin  window-curtains 
looked  unattractive  and  strange,  as  if  his  whole  life  had 
changed  during  the  night.  Though  the  room  was  warm, 
he  pulled  the  quilt  up  over  his  head,  and  made  an  at- 
tempt to  fall  asleep  again  so  as  to  avoid  his  painful 
thoughts. 

**Ah — ah — ah!"  he  groaned,  biting  his  nails. 
"Freze!  Ah— ah!  What  folly!  What  terrible  folly! 
What  brainless  folly!  Who  was  pulling  at  my 
tongue?  What  did  I  have  to  blab  for?  Couldn't  I 
hold  it  back  ?  He  did  not  have  to  know  anything.  And 
I  could  have  gone  on  working,  and  everything  would 
have  been  all  right.  And  now  all  is  lost.  Lost  ?  Really 
lost?  Can't  I  really  fix  it  up?  Ah— ah— ah!  The 
devil!" 

He  was  thoroughly  convinced  he  had  joined  the  se- 
cret service  solely  for  the  good  of  terror  and  there  was 
incontestably  a  bottomless  gulf  between  Doctor  Berg  and 
him.  He  was  convinced  he  was  not  a  venal  "secret 
agent,"  but  a  bold  revolutionist  who  could  not  be 
bought,  more  courageous,  of  course,  than  those  who 
would  not  dare.  And  he  was  also  convinced  that  his 
unpardonable  sin  lay  solely  in  the  fact  that  he  had 
"babbled  like  a  woman,"  and  overestimated  his  trust  in 
comradeship. 

"He  does  not  understand.    The  fanatic,  the  fool,  the 

381 


382  What  Never  Happened 

telegraph  post!  They  have  created  laws!  The  saints! 
Oh,  folly,  folly,  folly!  Insane  folly!  But  what's  to  he 
done?"  He  sat  up  uncombed  and  unwashed,  swing- 
ing his  bare  legs  and  gesticulating  with  his  arms  as  he 
muttered : 

*'He  was  telling  me  something.  He  said  he'd  kill 
me.  He  wouldn't  dare  to.  For  what?  What  have  I 
done?  Am  I  a  provocateur?  My  conscience  is  clean. 
"Why  shouldn't  it  be  clean  since  I  am  convinced  that  we 
must  work  in  the  secret  service?  Let  him  prove  that 
I  am  wrong.  Let  him  prove  it.  Yes,  yes,  let  him  prove 
it.  Whom  have  I  betrayed?  Have  I  injured  anybod}^? 
And  the  money?  A  trifle.  Nonsense!  A  child  would 
understand  it.     Kidiculous!" 

He  quieted  down,  almost  convinced  he  was  right  and 
there  was  nothing  to  accuse  him  of.  He  put  on  his  shoes 
and  began  to  dress  carefully.  But  the  thought  of  what 
had  taken  place  the  evening  before  haunted  him.  Hav- 
ing combed  himself  and  put  the  brush  on  the  marble 
table  his  thoughts  involuntarily  reverted  to  Freze.  At 
the  same  instant  he  recalled  Colonel  von  Schoen,  who 
wore  his  hair  short  and  was  ruddy  and  plump  and  a  very 
polite  gentleman.  He  recalled  his  round,  dull  eyes, 
those  eyes  of  which  he  was  so  afraid,  and  their  last  con- 
versation. 

"Don't  you  know  where  Herman  Freze  is  now,  Ep- 
stein?" 

"Have  I  betrayed?"  Epstein  was  stricken  with 
terror.  His  knees  shook.  "Why  did  I  betray  him? 
Am  I  a  provocateur?  How  could  I  help  giving  an 
answer?  If  I  had  not  answered,  he  would  have  grown 
suspicious  of  me — would  have  understood  I  was  play- 
ing a  game.     It  is  inevitable.     And  what  harm  have 


Wliat  Never  Happened  383 

I  done?  I  merely  said  I  thought  Freze  was  in  St. 
Petersburg.  Well,  what  of  it?  St.  Petersburg  is  big. 
He  would  surely  be  found. ' '  He  tried  to  vindicate  him- 
self, tried  hard  to  convince  himself  he  had  committed  no 
crime,  and  Freze  would  not  be  arrested.  "Even  should 
some  harm  come  of  it,  there  is  a  difference.  A  provoca- 
teur works  for  money,  while  I  do  it  for  an  ideal  and  for 
no  personal  interest.  That  must  not  be  forgotten.  It 
must  be  borne  in  mind  that — that  sometimes  victims 
must  be  sacrificed."  He  staggered  to  the  window  and 
pulled  the  muslin  curtain  aside.  ''Freze  says  he'll  kill 
me.  Freze  will  kill  me  ?  How  ?  Suppose  I  go  out  now 
and  he  should  be  waiting  for  me  around  the  corner? 
Will  he  spare  me?  Do  they  spare?  Why  did  I  talk? 
How  silly  of  me !  He'll  kill  me?  Why  didn't  he  kill 
me  yesterday  ?  Could  he  ?  Didn  't  he  dare  to  ?  I  gave 
him  a  promise.  How  idiotic!  Oh,  what  should  I  do? 
What  should  I  do  ? "  As  he  put  on  his  coat  awkwardly, 
he  had  a  clear  vision  of  the  events  of  the  night  before. 
He  saw  the  close,  smoke-filled,  brightly-lighted  private 
dining-room,  the  narrow  face,  that  seemed  chiselled  in 
stone,  the  black  revolver  and  the  table  with  bottles  on 
it.  "I  shall  be  compelled  to  put  one  condition,"  Freze 
had  said.  "That  means — I  must  escape.  But  where 
to?  Escape  where?  They  are  surely  watching  me. 
There  is  no  escape,"  he  thought  in  fear  and  immediately 
caught  at  a  new  hope.  "Suppose  I  don't  go  out? 
Suppose  I  hide  here?  Who  can  force  me  to  come  out? 
I  shall  sit  right  here,  on  this  couch.  And  I  will  write 
to  the  colonel." 

He  quieted  down  for  a  moment  and  even  tried  to 
smoke,  but  his  fingers  were  not  firm,  and  he  could  not 
light  the  match. 


384  What  Never  Haj)pened 

"IIow  about  Doctor  Berg?  They  went  to  his  house. 
"Will  they  come  here?  Well,  yes,  it's  very  simple — ■ 
they'll  come  here." 

He  did  not  doubt  any  longer  that  wherever  he  would 
be,  whatever  he  would  do,  however  he  would  try  to  pro- 
tect himself,  the  merciless  Freze  would  ferret  him  out. 
He  threw  away  the  unlighted  cigarette  and  looked  out 
into  the  hall  cautiously.  In  the  next  room  an  elderly 
maid  with  a  tired  face  was  fixing  up  the  bed.  "A 
maid?"  Epstein  became  excited.  "I  did  not  notice 
her  yesterday.  Is  she  a  maid?  My  God!"  Feeling  a 
sudden  spell  of  dizziness  come  over  him,  he  ran  down 
stairs  quickly  and  came  out  on  the  Nevsky. 

Sadovaya  Street  was  crowded.  There  was  a  funeral 
procession  for  an  officer.  While  the  monster  cortege  of 
carriages  and  soldiers  was  passing,  Epstein  looked 
suspiciously  at  every  passer-by.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
somewhere  near  him,  perhaps  at  his  very  side,  was  Freze, 
or  Kolka  or  Svistkov,  or  some  other  terrorist  whom  he 
did  not  know.  At  the  entrance  to  the  public  library 
stood  a  long-haired  student  in  a  white  coat. 

"That's  strange,"  Epstein  thought,  looking  at  him 
attentively.  "Why  is  he  here?  And  why  doesn't  he 
look  up?  Why  does  he  turn  his  eyes  away?  Who 
knows  who  he  is?"  Without  thinking,  afraid  to  look 
back,  haunted  by  the  fear  that  the  student  was  following 
him,  he  ran  along  Sadovaya  Street,  jostling  men  and 
women,  breathing  heavily  and  not  seeing  where  he  was 
running.  There  was  a  steady  ringing  in  his  ears.  He 
saw  sparks  of  fire,  and  his  feet  caught  in  his  coat  all 
the  time.  The  immense  city  of  iron  and  stone,  the  tall 
impenetrable  houses,  the  theatres,  monuments,  parks  and 
castles  seemed  like  a  solitarj^  prison  cell,  like  a  cleverly 


What  Never  Happened  385 

laid  trap.  Freze,  he  felt,  was  not  the  only  one  spying 
on  him.  So  were  the  hack  drivers,  the  newsboys,  the 
messengers,  the  blind  and  crippled  beggars.  They  were 
all  treacherous  members  of  the  fighting  squad,  terrorists, 
intent  upon  killing  him.  They  were  laughing  at  him. 
Not  a  soul  in  the  world  had  pity  on  him.  He  reached 
the  Kalinkin  Bridge  and  turned  into  Galerny  Street. 
He  could  see  the  black  chimneys  of  factories  on  Cheku- 
sky  Street.  At  the  custom  house  stood  rows  of  barnS) 
warehouses,  stores,  and  low  houses.  Epstein  halted. 
The  blue  diamond-like  water  was  sparkling  with  silver 
spots  and  a  boat  was  emerging  from  the  Morsky  Canal. 
Bells  were  ringing  gleefully. 

"It's  Sunday.  Bells  are  ringing."  Epstein  sud- 
denly came  to  himself.  "I  must  hide — I  must  hide — • 
but  what  am  I  afraid  of  ?  How  foolish !  Even  if  Freze 
is  following  me,  all  I  need  do  is  tell  Colonel  von  Schoen. 
Tell  Colonel  von  Schoen?  Then  I'm  a  provocateur." 
He  did  not  dare  to  develop  the  thought.  His  body  bent. 
He  staggered  over  the  Egyptian  Bridge,  and  reached  the 
Peterhof  Prospect.  But  as  soon  as  he  saw  the  people, 
the  careless,  hurrying  crowds,  he  was  seized  by  fear 
again.  "There  is  no  escape — no  escape,"  he  almost 
sobbed,  and  jumped  upon  a  passing  street-car. 

The  car  was  dirty  and  crowded,  the  windows  were 
trickling,  and  the  conductor  was  issuing  tickets.  Ep- 
stein squeezed  himself  into  a  corner,  and  looked  around 
the  car  from  beneath  knitted  brows.  On  the  bench  op- 
posite him  a  retired  soldier  with  medals  on  his  chest  was 
slumbering.  "When  did  he  come  in?  Before  or  after 
me?"  Epstein  tried  to  recall.  He  felt  he  was  getting 
tired.  "I  think  after  me,  yes,  of  course,  after  me.  But 
how  is  it  I  didn't  notice  him?    Why  is  he  silent?    He  is 


386  What  Never  Happened 

pretending  to  sleep.  I  think  I  have  seen  him  some- 
where," The  soldier  drew  his  grey  brows  together  and 
looked  at  Epstein  with  expressionless  eyes.  Epstein 
pressed  closer  to  the  wall.  "He's  looking  at  me.  He's 
sly.  He's  afraid  of  making  a  mistake.  My  God!  I 
must  get  off.  It's  best  to  jump  off  while  the  ear  is  mov- 
ing." The  wheels  squeaked,  and  the  lame  horses  re- 
duced their  speed. 

"Technological  Institute,"  the  conductor  called  out. 
Epstein  got  up  and  made  his  way  with  difficulty  to  the 
platform.     The  old  soldier  followed  him. 

"Well,  of  course,  of  course,"  Epstein  thought,  in 
utter  terror.  "It's  so.  What  should  I  do?  I  must 
run. ' '  He  looked  back  at  the  old  man  and  ran  stealthily 
into  the  Zagorodny  Prospect.  "I  have  seen  him  some- 
where? Yes,  I  have,"  he  kept  repeating,  accelerating 
his  steps.  He  made  his  way  through  side-streets  to  the 
Obvodny  Canal,  past  the  gas  works  and  the  city 
slaughter  houses,  and  reached  the  park.  "If  they're 
following  me,  they'll  surely  come  here,  and  I'll  see  them 
— I  '11  see  them. ' '  He  did  not  know  whom  he  would  see 
and  why  it  would  be  good  if  the  terrorists  found  him 
there  in  the  deserted  section  on  the  outskirts  of  St.  Pe- 
tersburg, where  nobody  would  come  to  his  rescue. 

The  day  was  sunny,  warm  as  in  summer.  Beyond  the 
tracks  of  the  Warsaw  Eailroad  the  white  crosses  of  a 
cemetery  could  be  seen. 

"My  God,  what  is  the  trouble  with  me?"  Epstein 
grasped  his  head.  "My  God,  am  I  losing  my  mind? 
Shall  I  tell  the  colonel?  No?"  But  the  thought  im- 
mediately died  out.  "No — I  must  leave — leave — leave 
St.  Petersburg — cross  the  frontier — to  Paris."  And 
Paris,  dismal  Paris,  where  he  had  gone  hungry  and  cold 


Wliat  Never  Happened  387 

and  had  spent  weary  days,  now  seemed  a  land  of  prom- 
ise. * '  But  how  can  I  leave  1  Oh,  it  makes  no  difference. 
Nobody  will  find  me  there.  Nobody  will  dare  to  kill 
me  there."  He  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  four 
o  'clock.  * '  I  think  there  is  a  train.  And  suppose  they  're 
at  the  station  ?  No,  no,  it  cannot  be. ' '  He  took  a  hack, 
ordered  the  top  to  be  raised,  and  asked  to  be  taken  to  the 
Warsaw  Station.  He  arrived  just  as  the  third  bell  was 
given.  A  suburban  train  was  leaving  for  Luga.  Ep- 
stein, full  of  excitement,  happy  there  was  no  one  there, 
went  to  the  first-class  car,  and  after  the  locomotive  had 
whistled  and  the  train  had  started,  he  walked  through 
all  the  cars  for  the  sake  of  security.  The  car  next  to  the 
locomotive  was  almost  empty.  Epstein  sank  into  the 
dirty  seat  and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 

"Thank  God,  it's  all  over!  Thank  God,  I'm  saved! 
Saved !  Saved ! "  he  repeated,  hardly  believing  in  his 
own  good  fortune.  His  coat  burst  open,  his  hat  was 
crushed  and  his  glasses  fell  and  were  broken.  The 
wheels  clattered  monotonously,  the  car  vibrated  at  rail- 
joints,  and  through  the  open  windows  the  damp  air 
rushed  in.  Everything  was  now  forgotten,  he  felt, 
everything  was  past  and  gone,  was  forgiven,  and  Freze, 
reconciled,  was  not  exacting  promises. 


CHAPTER  X 

FREZE'S  men  were  impatiently  waiting  for 
"work."  Long  months  had  passed  in  idleness 
and  loneliness,  in  explicable  unforeseen  failures. 
The  governor  of  Saratov,  on  whom  they  had  had  their 
eyes  all  winter,  left  for  St.  Petersburg  before  Christ- 
mas and  did  not  return  to  Saratov.  In  February,  on 
the  eve  of  an  expropriation  in  Kazan,  Kolka  suddenly 
noticed  that  the  squad  was  being  spied  upon.  In  March 
the  assassination  of  the  Odessa  district  attorney,  who 
was  known  for  his  cruelty,  did  not  take  place  because  the 
dynamite  had  not  arrived  in  time.  In  April  a  transport 
of  ammunition  fell  through  in  Tver,  and  it  was  neces- 
sary to  postpone  a  contemplated  attack  on  the  postoffice. 
Freze  did  not  lose  his  composure.  He  had  come  to  the 
capital  to  destroy  the  secret  service  and  he  was  immeas- 
urably happy  that  there  was  an  opportunity  to  kill  Colo- 
nel von  Schoen.  He  did  not  doubt  that -Epstein  was 
too  frightened  either  to  "squeal"  or  to  run  away,  and 
he  was  sure  the  squad  would  acqviit  itself  with  honour. 
He  thought  himself  obliged  to  revenge  Volodya's  death, 
the  defeated  terror,  and  the  defeated  revolution.  And 
though  he  hated  Epstein,  as  people  hate  a  wicked,  treach- 
erous enemy,  he  decided  to  send  him  across  the  frontier 
in  case  the  colonel  were  really  killed. 

The  day  following  his  meeting  with  Epstein  he  saw 
Svistkov  and  Kolka.  He  told  them  of  the  planned  as- 
sassination. They  met  in  the  Viborg  section,  in  the 
cheap  restaurant  Rostov-on-Don. 

388 


What  Never  Happened  389 

When  Freze  had  finished,  Svistkov  curled  his  long 
moustaches  that  were  like  Kaiser  Wilhelm's,  and  made 
no  answer.  His  soldier-like  brown  face  with  its  rough 
chin  gave  no  indication  of  what  he  thought  of  Epstein's 
treachery.  Freze  was  not  surprised.  He  knew  Svist- 
kov could  keep  things  to  himself  and  achieve  the  most 
dangerous  things.  Kolka,  a  red-haired,  thick-lipped 
fellow  of  about  twenty-eight,  laughed  aloud.  He  had 
a  provoking  sort  of  laugh,  as  if  he  were  making  fun  of 
himself  and  his  companions. 

"There's  a  trick  for  you!  The  sly  guy!  Ha — ^ha — 
ha!  How  many  people  do  you  think  know  about  the 
joke  already?  I  would  have  strangled  the  dirty-face 
with  my  own  hands.  I  would  have  killed  him  on 
the  spot!  You  may  crack  and  crack,  but  you  can't 
bend!" 

Freze  motioned  to  a  waiter  and  ordered  tea.  Kolka 
became  restless  in  his  chair,  his  greenish,  catlike  eyes 
protruded  more  than  usually,  and  he  laughed  louder 
still. 

' '  I  remember  there  was  a  man  by  the  name  of  Filatka 
in  our  shop.  He  was  a  scoundrel,  not  a  man.  We  were 
watching  him.  Something  was  wrong,  we  saw — some- 
thing foxy  about  him.  What  would  you  have  done? 
We  got  hold  of  him  and  began  questioning  him.  'You 
knave,  you  scoundrel,  confess.  We'll  try  you.'  He  be- 
gan to  cry  and  shout  and  jump  up  and  down.  'Broth- 
ers, I  swear  to  God,  not  I.  Brothers,  here's  the  cross, 
I'm  not  guilty.'  'All  right,  talk.  Who  was  running 
to  the  secret  service  yesterday?  Speak  up,  you  bastard ! 
I'll  beat  you  to  death!'  He  kept  crying  like  a  fish, 
'Comrades,  forgive  me!  Spare  my  soul!'  But  he 
couldn't  fool  us.     The  grave  for  him!" 


390  What  Never  Happened 

''You  killed  him?"  Svistkov  put  in  gloomily. 

"What  do  you  think  we  did — forgave  him?" 

"That's  what  they  deserve." 

Freze  hardly  heard  their  conversation.  The  thought 
of  Colonel  von  Schoen  was  disturbing  him.  "If  Colo- 
nel von  Schoen  is  killed,"  he  was  considering,  "it  will 
at  once  become  easier  to  work.  He  knows  everything. 
He  is  at  the  head  of  the  secret  service.  Epstein  will 
show  us  his  house  and  tell  us  when  he  is  at  home.  I 
will  make  the  bomb.  A  bomb  is  more  reliable.  What 
would  Volodya  do  ?  After  all,  Epstein  is  a  provocateur. 
Will  he  fool  us?  No,  he  won't.  And  suppose  he  runs 
away?  If  he  runs  away,  then  what  shall  I  do?  Too 
bad  I  did  not  establish  a  watch  over  him.  But  no,  he 
is  a  coward.     He  will  not  dare  to  run  away." 

He  raised  his  head  and  looked  at  Svistkov.  Svistkov 
was  sitting  with  his  broad  back  bent,  and  arms  spread 
in  a  circle,  noisily  drinking  his  tea.  "And  Volodya  is 
gone — and  Yelizar — and  Olga."  Freze  sighed  and 
touched  Svistkov 's  sleeve. 

"Listen,  Svistkov." 

"Yes." 

"You  go  to  Epstein's  house  tomorrow  at  eight 
o'clock." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"To  the  hotel." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Take  a  revolver  along  and  keep  an  eye  on  Epstein. 
You  understand?" 

Svistkov,  drinking  his  tea,  said  yes  with  his  eyes. 
Kolka  became  attentive. 

"Herman  Karlovich,  this  isn't  fair." 

"What?" 


What  Never  Happened  391 

"How  about  me?" 

"You?"  Freze  mused.  "There  is  no  work  for  you 
yet." 

"That  means  one  worker  and  seven  idlers?"  Kolka 
muttered  offended.  "Why  should  he  put  his  head  into 
the  noose  every  day?" 

Freze  patted  him  on  the  shoulder  in  a  conciliatory 
manner,  paid  the  bill  and  went  out. 

"I  must  prepare  the  weapon  for  tomorrow,"  he 
thought,  as  he  entered  his  room.  He  locked  the  door 
carefully,  opened  the  satchel,  and  took  out  a  round  box 
with  soldered  edges,  "Yolodya's  bequest,"  he  smiled 
contentedly,  and  uncovered  the  soft,  odorous,  yellowish 
mass.  He  was  so  accustomed  to  make  bombs  and  handle 
dynamite,  and  was  so  proud  of  his  difficult  work  that 
the  thought  of  an  explosion  never  disturbed  him.  He 
worked  with  the  complacency  of  a  jeweller,  carefully 
and  without  passion,  measuring  all  his  motions.  "Yes, 
I'll  order  Epstein  to  show  us  Colonel  Schoen's  house," 
he  repeated,  kneading  the  elastic  mass.  "Svistkov  will 
throw  the  bomb.  Tomorrow."  Steps  resounded  in  the 
hall.  Freze  got  up  and  listened  at  the  door.  "Non- 
sense, no  one  will  come  in,"  he  thought  indifferently, 
without  apprehension,  and  returned  to  the  table.  He 
filled  the  tin  box,  laid  it  on  the  bed  carefully  and  ex- 
amined the  kindling  tube.  The  glass  tube  was  in  good 
condition,  but  the  mercury  was  damp  and  needed  diy- 
ing.  Still  oblivious  of  the  danger  of  an  explosion,  he 
lighted  the  alcohol  heater  and  emptied  the  mercury  into 
a  pan.  The  grains  began  to  give  forth  a  dry  cracking 
sound.  "Suppose  they  explode?"  Freze  became  wor- 
ried. "No,  they  won't.  They  never  have."  He  sat 
down  and  began  to  look  at  the  trembling  flame  with  close 


392  What  Never  Happened 

attention.  The  hotel  was  quiet.  No  sounds  came  from 
outside. 

"Olga  used  to  hide  our  dynamite,"  Freze  whispered. 
"Olga — how  long  ago  it  was!" 

Then  suddenly,  sitting  there  in  front  of  the  loaded 
bomb,  a  few  hours  before  the  planned  assassination,  he 
was  seized  by  fear.  He  realized  at  last  that  the  revolu- 
tion was  defeated,  that  his  attempts  were  futile,  and  that 
terror  was  ineffective.  Neither  the  killing  of  Colonel 
von  Schoen,  nor  the  dynamiting  of  the  secret  service,  nor 
the  execution  of  Epstein,  nor  a  dozen  desperate  expro- 
priations could  turn  the  tide  of  events,  or  effect  any 
change.  "Then  why  am  I  alive?  Why  am  I  working? 
Why  am  I  killing?"  he  asked  himself  anxiously  and 
touched  his  bald  forehead.  He  was  not  oppressed  by  his 
loneliness,  nor  by  that  feeling  of  having  been  deserted 
which  came  to  him  after  Volodya's  death,  nor  by  the 
sensation  that  a  dead  waste  surrounded  him,  nor  even 
by  the  thought  of  blood.  He  was  oppressed  by  a  sud- 
denly born  consciousness  that  terror  was  fruitless,  that 
he  was  torn  away  from  life,  that  his  efforts  were  vain. 

"The  revolution  has  been  defeated."  The  words  that 
carried  disgrace  with  them  flashed  through  his  mind. 
He  muttered  them  aloud  and  looked  blankly  into  the 
flame.  "All  right,  let  it  be  defeated.  I  must  remain 
on  the  battlefield.  We  shall  not  surrender.  I  have  no 
right  to  retreat.  I  am  defending  the  last  barricade.  I 
am  defending  the  red  banner.  I  may  perish,  but  so  has 
Volodya  perished."  Forgetting  about  Epstein  and  Von 
Schoen  and  the  mercury,  he  began  to  lose  his  usual  self- 
control.  He  took  the  decanter  from  the  table  and 
poured  out  a  glass  of  water. 

"  Is  it  really  impossible  to  win  ?    Have  we  really  been 


What  Never  Happened  393 

defeated?  La  commune  est  battue,  nous  n'avons  pas 
vaincu.  Ah,  it's  all  the  same.  We  shall  not  surrender. 
I,  at  any  rate,  will  not  surrender. ' '  He  stood  erect  and 
looked  into  the  fire  again.  His  firm,  sharp-featured  face 
turned  pale  and  still  narrower,  and  his  prominent  near- 
sighted eyes  became  sterner  and  more  sorrowful.  He 
bent  over  the  table.  And  he  remembered  no  more. 
Something  ringing,  fiery-red,  hot,  and  like  lightning, 
covered  his  eyes,  blue  spots  rushed  in  the  air,  and  the 
violet  ceiling  trembled.  There  was  no  time  to  become 
frightened.  There  was  no  time  to  scream.  There  was 
no  time  to  run.  He  dropped  his  arms  helplessly  and 
lay  flat  on  the  rug. 

On  regaining  his  senses,  he  could  not  understand  for 
a  time  what  had  happened  and  where  he  was.  An  un- 
familiar, boundless  feeling  possessed  him,  a  feeling  of 
repose,  of  blissful  restfulness,  as  if  the  tiresome  journey 
were  over  and  he  had  found  a  haven  at  last.  Every- 
thing he  had  just  been  thinking  about — the  revolution, 
Epstein,  Colonel  von  Schoen  and  the  squad — seemed  dis- 
tant, unimportant,  something  he  was  over  and  done  with. 
''How  good,"  he  whispered,  conscious  of  an  odour  of 
burning  and  not  comprehending  where  the  fire  was  and 
why  it  was  not  being  extinguished.  *'How  good!  I 
have  done  my  duty.  We  will  not  surrender.  I  will  not 
surrender.  An  explosion?  Yes,  an  explosion.  Volo- 
dya,  Volodya,  Volodya!"  He  tried  to  raise  himself, 
but  felt  a  sharp  pain  in  his  leg  and  a  rattling  in  his 
chest.  He  stretched  his  arms,  pressed  his  hot  cheeks  to 
the  rug  and  half  opened  one  eye.  But  he  saw  nothing. 
And  the  same  feeling  of  repose  was  in  his  soul.  ''Ich 
sterle,"  he  muttered  weakly  and  heaved  a  deep  sigh. 
*'Ya,  ich  sterbe.     All  is  well,  all  is  beautiful."     That 


394  Wliat  Never  Happened 

big,  radiant  feeling  which  filled  his  soul  was  so  deep  and 
significant  that  he  did  not  doubt  it  was  death.  His 
hand  jerked,  his  neck  stretched  out,  and  his  straight 
body  trembled.    He  sighed  again,  and  ceased  to  live. 


CHAPTER  XI 

A  MONTH  after  the  killing  of  Doctor  Berg, 
Zalkind,  Arseny  Ivanovieh,  Vera  Andreyevna 
and  Aliosha  Gruzdiev  were  arrested  simul- 
taneously in  different  parts  of  Russia.  Geunady  Genna- 
dievich,  who  had  long  been  ill  and  coughed  blood,  went 
South  at  the  advice  of  his  physicians.  The  Party  re- 
mained without  a  committee.  Rosenstern  was  taken  up 
with  "organization  work,"  and  entrusted  Aleksandr 
with  the  work  of  terror. 

The  arrest  of  the  comrades  did  not  disturb  Aleksandr. 
He  had  seen  the  decrepitude  of  Arseny  Ivanovieh,  the 
magnanimity  of  Aliosha  Gruzdiev,  the  carelessness  of 
Vera  Andreyevna,  but  like  Volodya  he  could  not  under- 
stand that  the  red  tape  slowness  was  not  the  result  of 
their  conscious  will,  but  of  the  spirit  of  the  Party,  of 
that  spirit  which  had  allowed  treachery  to  flourish  and 
murderous  robbery  to  spread.  He  thought  that  Rosen- 
stern,  trained  by  bitter  experience,  could  rebuild  the 
beloved  Party  and  regain  the  lost  faith.  But  the  re- 
sponsibility which  he,  the  unknown  lieutenant  Aleksandr 
Bolotov,  had  assumed,  was  disturbing  him.  He  had  not 
expected  that  a  man  unprepared  for  the  work,  never 
having  even  seen  hard  labour  camps  or  even  the  prison 
walls,  would  be  honoured  with  the  task  of  directing  the 
Party  troops.  But  there  was  no  choice.  Though  the 
comrades  were  not  reconciled  to  their  defeat  and  con- 
tinued to  argue  at  meetings  and  to  write  articles  on  the 
desirability  and  even  the  absolute  necessity  of  terror, 

396 


396  What  Never  Happened 

nobody  dared  to  risk  his  life  after  the  expose  of  Doc- 
tor Berg,  Abram,  Vanya,  Anna,  Kolka  the  Bum,  and 
Svistkov  allied  themselves  with  Aleksandr,  and  also  that 
vigorous  old  man  from  Siberia,  Solomon  Moiseyevich 
Bukh,  With  these  experienced  people  Aleksandr  set 
out  to  do  the  work. 

Towards  the  end  of  July  the  group  assembled  in  Mos- 
cow. One  day  in  August  Aleksandr  made  an  appoint- 
ment with  Abram.  He  left  the  house  in  the  evening,  but 
instead  of  taking  Tverskaya  Street  and  going  along  the 
Vozdvizhenka  Street,  he  went  through  the  Kremlin.  It 
was  only  in  the  pleasant  city  of  Moscow,  in  the  Moscow 
of  tar,  peasant  jackets,  mats,  saints'  ikons,  and  broken 
barricades,  that  he  felt  with  his  whole  heart  that  he  was 
Russian,  bound  to  Russia  by  the  ties  of  blood.  In  the 
east,  beyond  the  Presnensky  Ponds,  the  sun  was  setting 
in  a  bright-red  sky  and  swallows  were  flying  through 
the  air  against  the  sunset.  Aleksandr  stopped  at  the 
Tainitzka  Tower.  He  saw  the  blue  ribbon  of  the  narrow 
river,  the  brilliantly  lighted  Zamoskvoriechy  Street, 
Neskuchny  Park  and  Simonov  Monastery — immense, 
Russian,  ancient  Moscow. 

"The  burden  of  all  Russia — terror,"  he  thought. 
"But  why  I  ?  Why  not  Rosenstern,  why  not  one  of  those 
who  has  earned  the  honour,  who  has  proved  his  right. 
God,  why  is  Andriusha  dead?  He  could  have  helped 
me,  he  could  teach  me.  Whence  shall  I  get  the  courage  ? 
The  ability?  I  must  kill.  Kill  whom?  Raise  my  hand 
against  whom  ?  And  if  defeat  should  result  once  more  ? 
Another  unforgettable  disgrace?" 

It  was  getting  dark.  The  Kremlin  was  deserted,  but 
outside  its  gates  surged  the  Moscow  crowds.  Here,  at 
the   white   Elremlin   walls,   in   front   of   the   Uspensky 


What  Never  Happened  397 

Church,  a  few  paces  away  from  the  tomb  of  the  Russian 
Czars,  Aleksandr  felt  a  slight  hesitation.  But  he  under- 
stood that  to  him  and  to  the  Party  and  to  the  people 
this  blood  was  needed.  Only  blood  could  crown  the 
revolution,  could  save  Russia.  It  seemed  right  to  him, 
and  right  that  he,  an  officer  of  the  Russian  navy,  a  par- 
ticipant in  the  Japanese  campaign,  should  strike  the 
last  blow,  should  take  revenge  for  Port  Arthur  and  Tsu 
Shima,  that  he  should  bring  the  revolution  to  a  finish 
at  the  cost  of  his  own  life. 

"Zheliabov  and  Pestel,"  he  thought  with  joy,  "the 
Decembrists  and  the  people 's  freedom,  and  great  Russia, 
emancipated  by  me."  On  the  Kremlin  quay  below 
lights  were  appearing  like  stars,  and  beyond  the  Nesku- 
chny  the  sky  was  darkening.  Filled  with  excitement  he 
came  out  on  the  Krasnaya  Plaza,  and  descended  past 
the  Lobnoye  Place  into  the  Aleksandrov  Park.  The 
birches  were  rustling.  Aleksandr  trembled.  A  small, 
lean  man  with  curled  moustaches  lodged  straight  at  him. 
"Tutushkin,"  he  thought,  and  went  faster.  But  Tu- 
tushkin  nodded  to  him.  Aleksandr  frowned,  but  fol- 
lowed him,  suppressing  an  unpleasant  feeling. 

''What  do  you  want?" 

"How  are  you,  Aleksandr  Nikolayevich ?  May  I  dis- 
turb you?     I  think  there  is  no  one  around." 

Aleksandr  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  disdain.  The 
dark  side  street,  the  faint  shimmering  of  the  street 
lamps,  Tutushkin's  whisper  and  his  spy's  cap  reminded 
him  of  Berg,  of  Masha  of  the  secret  service  and  the  un- 
deserved disgrace  he  had  so  recently  gone  through. 
"One  of  those  fishermen  who  fish  out  of  their  own 
pockets,"  he  thought  with  repugnance,  and  repeated 
coldly : 


398  What  Never  Happened 

"What  do  you  want?" 

"I'm  afraid  on  the  street,  Aleksandr  Nikolayevich.  I 
don't  see  any  of  our  lads,  still  it's  dangerous.  Wouldn't 
you  come  into  a  saloon?  I  have  some  business  to  tell 
you  about." 

Five  minutes  later  they  were  sitting  in  a  beer-saloon. 
Tutushkin,  bending  low  over  the  table,  was  speaking 
hurriedly. 

' '  I  have  been  looking  for  you,  Aleksandr  Nikolayevich 
— for  a  long  time.  I  didn't  get  a  chance.  Of  course, 
we  know  your  address." 

"My  address?" 

* '  Yes,  your  address — Hotel  Metropol  ?  But  of  course, 
I  was  afraid.  Though  we  have  relaxed  our  watch  over 
you  in  order  not  to  excite  any  suspicion,  still — the  hotel 
clerk,  the  waiters,  and  so  on." 

Aleksandr  listened,  and  could  not  believe  his  ears. 
Tutushkin  seemed  to  be  trying  to  deceive  him  and  was 
laughing  at  him.    After  a  pause  he  said  quietly: 

"You're  lying.     How  do  you  know?" 

"Lying?  I  have  told  you  once  before  that  we  know 
everything.  Let  me  explain  to  you.  You  may  doubt 
what  I  say  if  you  wish,  but  I  am  telling  you  the  truth, 
upon  my  word.  My  own  life  hangs  by  a  hair.  Only  out 
of  goodwill — I  knew  your  deceased  brother  Audrey 
Nikolayevich,  may  he  rest  in  peace.  Think  of  Doctor 
Berg.  Who  threw  the  light?  I,  Dmitry  Tutushkin. 
And  now  I  have  been  assigned  to  a  band  that  is  to  watch 
over  you." 

"Go  on." 

"Yes — ^well — I'm  afraid  of  everything.  I'm  a  family 
man — ^burdened  with  a  family.  Judge  for  yourself: 
six  small  children.    The  colonel  might  squeeze  me  with 


What  Never  Happened  399 

his  nails,  and  not  a  thing  would  be  left,  only  a  wet  spot- 
And  so  I  have  been  looking  for  you  in  the  hope  that  you 
wouldn't  forget  me.  I  know  your  magnanimity.  The 
thing  is  this,  Aleksandr  Nikolayevich.  We  have  insti- 
tuted a  watch  over  you.  And  not  only  over  you.  "We 
know  there  are  six  others  beside  you  working.  And  be- 
lieve me,  we  also  know  whom  you're  threatening — not 
a  mere  governor.  We  know  of  the  lady  who  lives  on 
Arbata  Street,  of  the  Jew  with  light  hair,  the  'nose,' 
we  call  him,  who  lives  on  Ilinka  Street,  of  the  younger 
Jew,  the  'clamp,'  the  one  who  wears  a  fur  jacket  and 
lives  in  a  hotel  on  Sadovaya  Street.  Am  I  not  right? 
Don't  you  believe  me?  Well,  then,  I  have  warned  you, 
Aleksandr  Nikolayevich.  Now  do  as  you  please.  And 
don't  slight  me." 

"But  who  betrayed  us?"  Aleksandr  asked.  He  felt 
no  hatred  or  anger  any  more,  as  though  what  Tutushkin 
had  said  was  natural  and  proper,  and  nothing  else  could 
be  expected.  Later,  long  afterwards,  when  he  recalled 
this  horrid  conversation,  he  could  never  explain  where 
he  had  gathered  the  strength  and  repose  that  had  up- 
held him.  Tutushkin  spread  his  hands  in  a  gesture  of 
regret. 

"Who  betrayed  you?  I  really  don't  know,  I  don't 
know.  But  so  help  me  God,  some  one  has  sold  you  for 
a  trifle.  Don't  have  any  doubts  on  that  point.  Believe 
me,  it's  always  that  way,  and  I  must  tell  you,  it's  surely 
one  of  your  own  people." 

"Which  one?" 

' '  One  of  those  six. ' ' 

"No,  there  you're  lying.'* 

"As  you  please." 

"How  does  he  dare  to  talk  that  way?     How  does  he 


400  What  Never  Happened 

dare  to  ? "  Aleksandr  flushed  deeply,  took  out  his  pocket- 
book,  and  silently  handed  Tutushkin  a  hundred  rubles. 
He  made  to  rise,  but  Tutushkin,  hiding  the  money  in  his 
fist,  said  cautiously : 

'^Merci.  ThanJi  you  very  much.  But  I  must  tell  you, 
even  though  you  feel  offended  again.  Of  course,  I  can't 
swear  to  it,  but  do  you  know  them  all  perfectly  well?'* 

"Speak  straight  out.     Who  is  the  provocateur?" 

"I  don't  know.  So  help  me  God,  I  don't,"  Tutushkin 
replied  hastily.  "If  I  knew,  believe  me  I  would  not 
shield  him." 

"Perhaps  you're  not  satisfied?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  am." 

"Tell  me,  do  you  want  money?" 

"My  God!  What  is  money?  Metal!  I'd  gladly  do 
it,  but  by  God  I  don't  know.  My  advice  to  you,  Alek- 
sandr Nikolayevich,  is  to  cross  the  border.  You  won't 
be  arrested  tomorrow.  But — if  you'll  pardon  me — one 
who  takes  care  of  himself  is  taken  care  of  by  God. ' ' 

' '  Why  won 't  I  be  arrested  tomorrow  ? ' ' 

*  *  Because  it 's  our  intention  to  have  you  arrested  with 
a  bomb  in  your  hands  at  the  scene  of  the  crime — caught 
with  the  goods,  so  to  say — at  the  moment  of  the  at- 
tempt." 

"At  the  moment  of  the  attempt?" 

"Exactly.     Then  they  will  get  a  reward." 

Aleksandr  looked  at  him  intently. 

"Then  you  don't  know  who  the  provocateur  is?" 

"No,  I  don't." 

On  his  way  to  the  Hotel  Metropol  late  that  night 
Aleksandr  felt  as  though  some  one  had  played  a  bitter 
joke  on  him.  "The  tomb  of  the  Russian  Czars,  the 
Uspensky  Cathedral,  the  Kremlin,  Holy  Moscow,"  he 


WHat  Never  Happened  401 

thought  with  a  bitter  smile.  * '  I  am  a  Russian,  Yes,  of 
course  I  am  a  Russian.  We  are  all  Russians,  thank  God 
— Tutushkin,  Nebogatov,  Doctor  Berg,  and  Stoessel,  and 
Colonel  von  Schoen,  and  this  treacherous  unknown 
'comrade.'  We  are  all  Russians,  the  grandchildren  of 
Pestel,  the  children  of  Zheliabov.  What  a  shameful 
thing!  What  can  we  do?  What  can  we  achieve?  Un- 
fortunate, slavish,  snow-bound  Russia ! ' ' 

At  Iverskaya  Street  a  hairy  peasant  snatched  his  cap 
off  and  kept  bowing  low  and  pointing  his  fmger  to  his 
chest.  Aleksandr  looked  at  him  contemptuously.  "The 
great  Russian  nation,  the  great  Russian  revolution! 
The  only  hope  of  the  Russian  is  in  God,  in  the  faithful, 
orthodox  priest." 

He  recalled  the  service  that  had  been  held  on  the  bat- 
tleship, on  the  eve  of  battle,  and  how  the  ship 's  chaplain, 
the  stout  priest,  Father  Yevpl,  whom  the  soldiers  had 
nicknamed  "Chaldean,"  had  read  the  prayers  to  the 
sound  of  cannons. 

"The  Japanese,  I  am  sure,  did  not  pray,  did  not  bow 
to  the  ikons.  They  were  learning  how  to  shoot."  And 
he  recalled  his  prayers:  "God,  give  me  the  happiness 
to  help  save  Russia,  even  though  my  share  be  only  as  a 
drop  in  the  ocean,  as  a  spark  in  the  flame.  God,  help  me 
to  see  victory." 

"And  I  helped,  and  I  saw.  And  I  shall  help,  and  I 
shall  see,"  he  muttered,  biting  his  lips  until  they  bled. 
The  Theatre  Plaza  was  dark.  The  building  of  the  thea- 
tre appeared  a  black  mass.  The  air  was  close.  No 
stars  were  out. 


CHAPTER  XII 

WHEN  the  first  sharp  pain  had  passed,  Alek- 
sandr  resolved  that  he  must  fight.  But  how 
— that  was  the  question.  Solomon  Moisey- 
evich,  Vanya,  Abram,  Anna,  Svistkov,  and  Kolka  the 
Bum  were  all  honest  terrorists.  It  was  impossible  to 
believe  that  any  of  them  should  be  a  traitor,  a  Judas. 
Vanya  had  been  fighting  in  Moscow.  Anna  had  been 
making  bombs.  Abram  had  killed  Doctor  Berg.  Solo- 
mon Moiseyevich  had  spent  ten  years  at  hard  labour. 
Svistkov  and  Kolka  had  worked  with  Volodya.  To  no 
one  of  them  could  suspicion  attach. 

Aleksandr  sent  a  telegram  to  Rosenstern,  asking  him 
to  come  to  Moscow.  Rosenstern,  who  had  grown  thin 
and  pale,  utterly  exhausted  by  the  Party  work,  listened 
to  what  Aleksandr  had  to  say,  and  then  asked: 
"What  do  you  intend  to  do?  Tell  me." 
They  were  sitting  in  Philippov's  cafe  in  a  secluded 
corner  near  the  door.  At  the  counter  sounded  the 
laughter  of  children.  There  was  a  tinkling  of  glasses 
and  the  atmosphere  smelled  of  bread  and  tobacco. 
Aleksandr  looked  at  the  walls  hung  with  price-lists,  at 
the  soiled  tables,  at  the  floor  covered  with  spit  and 
cigar  butts,  and  paused  before  he  replied.  It  suddenly 
seemed  strange  to  him,  that  he,  Aleksandr  Bolotov,  an 
ensign  of  the  Russian  navy,  a  brilliant  young  ofiScer, 
should  be  in  hiding  like  a  murderer,  followed  by  spies, 
in  constant  danger  of  arrest,  and  in  the  company  of 

402 


What  Never  Happened  403 

the  famous  revolutionary  Rosenstern.  Never  in  his  life, 
on  the  ocean,  or  in  battle,  or  later  in  Kioto,  had  he  ex- 
perienced such  a  feeling  of  pitiful  helplessness.  He 
shook  his  head  impatiently,  trying  to  drive  away  these 
bitter  thoughts,  and  taking  out  his  silver  cigarette  case, 
he  lit  a  cigarette. 

"I  will  be  quite  frank  with  you.  Had  I  foreseen 
Doctor  Berg  was  a  provocateur,  I  would  never  have 
joined  the  Party.  "Why  have  I  been  chosen  to  direct  the 
work  of  terror  ?  You  will  say  there  is  no  one  else.  You 
v.'ill  say  after  this  affair  with  Doctor  Berg  nobody  cares 
to  work  as  he  used  to.  All  right.  I  am  satisfied.  I 
have  assumed  the  responsibility.  I  am  not  afraid  of  it. 
But  teach  me  what  to  do.  You  have  been  working  in 
the  committee  for  many  years.  You  must  teach  me. 
Both  of  us  know  there  is  a  provocateur.  But  where  is 
he?    "Who  is  he?     How  can  we  find  out?" 

Rosenstern  turned  away.  His  round  shoulders 
drooped  slowly  and  his  curly  head  shook.  Rosenstern, 
the  correct,  the  perfectly  poised,  who  had  not  wavered 
when  the  committee  fell,  now  looked  as  forlorn  as  an  un- 
happy boy.  It  all  seemed  unreal.  That  was  not  Alek- 
sandr  speaking  about  the  band,  but  some  irresponsible 
person  saying  meaningless  things.  The  Party  could  not 
be  dying,  the  well-established  machine  to  which  he  had 
consecrated  himself  could  not  be  crumbling  into  dust. 
He  felt  like  saying  that  Tutushkin  had  deliberately  lied, 
that  there  could  be  no  treachery,  that  he  could  vouch  for 
the  band.  But  he  kept  quiet  and  covered  his  face  with 
his  hands. 

"You  know,  when  I  was  attached  to  the  fleet," 
Aleksandr  began  quietly,  "I  knew  the  Japanese  were 
stronger.     I  knew  Nebogatov's  ships  were  '  self -sinkers, ' 


40i  What  Never  Happened 

and  there  had  been  a  battle  on  July  28,  and  the  Petro- 
pavlovsk  had  been  lost.  I  knew  we  were  ignorant  and 
did  not  know  how  to  man  vessels.  I  knew  it  all,  and 
yet,  strange  as  it  may  seem  to  you,  I  had  faith  in  our 
victory.  Not  only  that,  but  I  believed  firmly — I  wanted 
to  believe — that  victory  could  be  secured  by  courage, 
yes,  yes,  by  courage  alone,  by  the  careful  Russian  per- 
haps. I  also  had  faith  in  our  strength,  in  Russia's 
strength,  in  Russia  that  gave  us  Istomin,  Kornilov, 
Ushakhov.  And  do  you  know  when  I  lost  my  faith? 
Not  when  I  realized  that  nothing  can  be  gained  by 
courage  alone ;  not  when  I  saw  that  all  was  lost ;  not  even 
during  the  battle,  when  the  Osliabya  went  down,  when 
the  Suvorov  was  set  on  fire.  No,  long  before  that.  I 
went  into  battle  without  the  least  bit  of  hope,  just  be- 
cause I  had  sworn  allegiance  to  Russia.  I'll  tell  you 
how  it  happened.  On  the  23d  of  November  we  were 
approaching  the  shores  of  Africa,  near  Bengala,  the 
Portuguese  colonies.  "We  came  up  in  full  force,  the  whole 
invincible  armada,  the  Suvorov,  the  Aleksandr,  the 
Borodino,  the  Osliabya,  the  Orel,  the  Nahimov,  the 
Aurora,  and  the  Donskoy.  We  entered  the  bay,  the 
Great  Fish  Bay,  a  sandy  shoal.  We  began  to  take  on 
coal.  And  what  do  you  think?  Suddenly  smoke  ap- 
peared near  shore.  It  came  nearer  and  nearer.  A 
queer  sort  of  dishlike  thing  was  coming,  hardly  a  ship, 
the  devil  knows  what!  A  salt-box,  a  boat  of  ancient 
construction,  with  one  cannon  and  two  mitrailleuses. 
And  such  a  foolish  name — Limpopo.  The  Portuguese 
flag  was  flying  over  it.  There  was  a  mulatto  in  it  with 
a  sword  and  plumes.  It  came  to  our  side,  to  the  Su- 
vorov's  side,  and  the  mulatto  made  a  horn  out  of  his 
hands,  and  shouted  with  all  his  might:    'Leave  here  at 


Wliat  Never  Happened  405 

once,  or  I  Mali  shoot!'  That  was  the  Limpopo's  order  to 
the  Suvorov.  And  then  for  the  first  time  I  began  to 
have  doubts  of  our  victory.  Not  only  doubts.  I  felt 
with  all  my  heart  that  it  was  the  end.  International 
law?  It  was  all  over.  But  if  we  had  been  a  power, 
would  he  have  dared  ?  And  now  this  Tutushkin.  He  is 
our  Limpopo,  He  advises  me  to  go  to  Paris.  'Leave 
here  at  once,  or  I  will  shoot. '  Well,  man,  teach  me  how. 
I  know.  Solomon  Moiseyevich,  Anna,  Vanya,  Abram, 
Svistkov,  and  Kolka  the  Bum,  and — you — don't  be  of- 
fended— and  you — one  of  you  is  a  provocateur.  That  is 
the  warning  the  Limpopo  gave  me.  You  remember  the 
'Night  in  May'?  You  remember  a  youngster  in  the 
pond  and  fairies  in  the  water  ?  He  knows  one  of  them  is 
not  a  fairy,  but  a  witch.  But  which  one  ?  Who  ?  They 
are  all  alike.  They  are  all  white  and  pure.  So  are  we. 
We  are  all  white  and  pure.  That  case  of  Doctor  Berg 
weighed  on  me  heavily.  It  was  not  merely  a  misfortune. 
Think  of  the  disgrace !  It's  a  disgrace  for  a  provocateur 
to  be  in  the  Party — in  the  Party,  in  the  committee. 
And  now  in  the  band.    What 's  to  be  done  ? ' ' 

Aleksandr  was  not  accustomed  to  much  talking.  He 
was  surprised  at  his  own  eloquence. 

"I  took  part  in  war,"  he  thought  bitterly,  **was  in 
battle,  lived  through  captivity.  I  joined  the  Party, 
planned  murder,  all  so  that  I  might  be  sitting  here  in 
this  vile-smelling  cafe,  asking  who  the  provocateur  is, 
waiting  for  an  answer,  and  expecting  arrest?" 

For  a  time  there  was  silence.     Rosenstern  was  pale  • 
with  red  spots  showing  on  his  cheeks.     He  looked  at 
Aleksandr  sideways. 

"If  there  is  a  provocateur,  we  must  find  out  who  he 
is." 


406  What  Never  Happened 

"Yes,  of  course — but  how?" 

"How?     I  don't  know." 

"But  you  exposed  Doctor  Berg.*' 

Rosenstern  gave  a  sickly  smile. 

"Doctor  Berg?  Ah,  my  God,  what  a  comparison!  I 
had  observed  him  closely  for  three  months.  And  you 
are  to  be  arrested  in  a  week." 

"What's  to  be  done,  then?" 

"I  don't  know." 

A  red-faced,  clean-shaven  man  in  a  long  check  coat 
entered  the  cafe.  He  seated  himself  at  a  table  in  the 
corner  opposite  and  ordered  tea.  Eosenstern  looked  up 
fearfully. 

"Let's  go." 

They  rose  and  went  out.  On  the  other  side,  at  the 
furnished-room  house  the  Madrid,  two  men  were  loiter- 
ing. Not  far  from  them  at  the  street  corner,  a  hack 
was  standing. 

"Here,  mister,  a  hack." 

"Spies,"  Rosenstern  whispered.  "Here  is  what  I 
think,  Aleksandr  Nikolayevich.  You  must  make  an  in- 
vestigation. Investigate  all  of  them.  You  must  keep 
a  watch  on  everybody.  You  must  make  a  thorough 
search.     And — and  then — disband  them. ' ' 

Aleksandr  realized  that  Rosenstern  could  not  help 
him.  But  he  felt  he  would  not  desert  terror.  Neither 
Rosenstern,  nor  the  band,  nor  the  Party  had  the  power 
to  stop  the  attempt.  He  must  carry  it  through.  He 
felt  he  was  responsible  for  the  treachery  that  had  arisen 
not  before  the  Party  alone,  but  before  all  Russia,  and 
even  if  it  was  impossible  to  win,  it  was  possible  to  deny 
defeat.  The  dignity  of  the  revolution,  the  honour  of  the 
band,  and  the  memory  of  the  dead,  the  blood  that  had 


What  Never  Happened  407 

been  spilled  for  the  people,  all  demanded  the  sacrifice. 
But  the  thought  of  death  did  not  frighten  him.  *  *  God ! 
Give  me  the  happiness  to  have  a  share  in  saving  Russia, 
like  a  drop  in  the  ocean,  like  a  spark  in  the  flame,"  he 
prayed.  Standing  erect  and  looking  straight  into  Rosen- 
stern's  eyes,  he  said  firmly: 

"I  will  not  disband  the  squad." 

Rosenstern  thought  a  little. 

' '  You  will  ruin  yourself. ' ' 

''Perhaps." 

"But  there's  no  use  in  it." 

*' Perhaps." 

"But  you  have  no  hope  of  success." 

"I  don't  know." 

"You  have  no  hopes,  have  you,  of  the  treachery  being 
exposed?" 
•     "I  don't  know." 

Rosenstern  paused. 

"Listen,  take  my  advice.     Leave  here  at  once." 

"Across  the  border?" 

"Yes." 

''Limpopo,  Arkady  Borisovieh." 

"Well,  what  if  it  is  Limpopo?"  Rosenstern  answered 
without  taking  offence.  "Tutushkin  is  right.  Listen, 
what  else  can  you  do  ?  You  '11  be  hanged,  and  the  band 
with  you,  of  course.  "Who  needs  it?  Who?  It  means 
a  useless  loss  of  yourself.  What's  the  sense  of  it? 
Think  of  it,  after  you  come  back  you  will  be  useful 
again,  you  will  work  for  terror  again.  Well,  suppose 
there  is  a  provocateur  in  the  band.  Can't  you  collect 
another  band?  I  beg  of  you,  I  beg  of  you  sincerely,  I 
insist — in  the  name  of  the  Party,  in  the  name  of  terror. 
Do  vou  hear  me?" 


408  What  Never  Happened 

' '  I  hear  you. ' ' 

"Well?" 

"Nothing." 

"My  God,"  Rosenstern  continued  angrily,  "this  is 
obstinacy.  You  are  a  member  of  the  Party,  you  must 
reckon  with  it.  What  will  you  achieve?  Well,  there 
will  be  an  effective  trial.  But  what's  the  good  of  it? 
Do  we  want  trials?  We  want  terror.  What  will  hap- 
pen if  you  are  arrested?  I  can't  work  alone.  Do  you 
think  I  can?  The  Party  is  dying.  My  God,  the  Party ! 
Think  of  it  dying!"  Rosenstern  paused  for  a  second 
in  his  excitement.  He  wanted  to  go  on  to  prove  to 
Aleksandr  that  it  was  his  duty  as  a  Party  member  to 
save  the  Party,  and  consequently  his  own  life.  But 
Aleksandr  interrupted  him  drily : 

"You've  said  enough,  Arkady  Borisovieh.  But 
there's  no  use.  I  won't  leave.  Make  up  your  mind  to 
it." 

Rosenstern  trembled. 

"Then  it  means  the  fate  of  Rozhdestvensky ? " 

"Yes." 

"The  fate  of  Tsu  Shima?" 

Aleksandr  did  not  answer.  Rosenstern  shook  his  hand 
quietly  and  without  looking  back  turned  toward  Tver- 
skaya  Street. 


H 


CHAPTER  XIII 

^''J'  "^  OW  did  I  escape?"  Svistkov  asked  gloomily, 
and  touched  his  long  moustachios  with  the 
turned-up  ends.  "It  isn't  worth  talking 
about.     I  ran  away  and  that's  all." 

"No,  you'd  better  tell  me  about  it." 

"Well,  there  was  a  revolt  in  our  regiment.  So 
then—" 

"A  revolt?" 

"Exactly,  The  fifth  company  revolted.  The  fellows 
shouted,  'Take  the  guns,  comrades!'  And  we  seized 
the  guns." 

"What  was  the  cause  of  the  revolt?" 

' '  On  account  of  the  meat.  The  meat  was  rotten,  with 
worms.  The  fifth  company  was  in  formation,  a  corporal 
to  its  right.  He  waved  his  gun.  'Come  with  me, 
brothers,  come ! '  Well,  we  made  some  sort  of  a  disturb- 
ance, then  we  saw  the  Bielostok  Regiment  coming  and 
then  they  began  to  shoot  with  machine  guns.  Nothing 
came  of  it.     That's  all." 

He  forgot  to  add  that  he  had  killed  one  officer  and 
when  the  machine  guns  were  being  fired  he  was  the  only 
one  in  the  regiment  who  did  not  throw  away  his  gun  and 
hide  in  the  barracks.     Aleksandr  lighted  a  cigarette. 

"Go  on." 

"What  followed?  Nothing.  We  were  arrested, 
taken  to  prison,  confined  to  the  top  floor.  One  hundred 
and  twenty-five  men.  Of  course,  a  trial.  The  verdict 
would  be  death,  nothing  less.     So  we  stayed  there.     The 

409 


410  What  Never  Happened 

sentry  were  from  our  village.  Well,  we  began  to  think 
how  we  could  escape  from  the  trap  we  were  in.  "We 
knocked  on  the  wall — a  hollow  sound.  That  meant  a 
pipe  in  it  for  ventilation.  So  we  began  to  whittle  at 
the  wall  with  a  knife.  We  made  a  hole.  Well.  ..." 
He  wrinkled  his  brow  as  if  trying  to  recall  something, 
and  looked  up.  The  hot  rays  of  the  sun  fell  through 
the  tops  of  the  bricks  and  played  on  the  dusty  bench. 
The  sound  of  distant  wheels  crunching  over  sand  came 
to  their  ears.  Kolka,  who  had  been  silent  all  the  time, 
laughed  and  nudged  Svistkov's  elbow. 

''He's  as  bashful  as  a  crab.  Have  you  really  forgot- 
ten? My,  what  a  girlish  memory!  Come  on,  tell  us. 
Stop  your  fooling." 

"What  is  there  to  tell?  We  made  a  hole,  and  then 
made  a  rope  out  of  sheets.  Well,  one  of  us  was  a  sol- 
dier, Fitik  was  his  name.  He  crossed  himself,  climbed 
into  the  hole  and  began  to  let  himself  down  the  rope. 
At  last  we  felt  a  pull  on  the  rope.  That  meant  to  pull 
him  up.  So  we  pulled  him  up.  *A  wall,'  he  said,  'and 
beyond  the  wall,  a  kitchen.'  'How  do  you  know?'  we 
asked.  'I  pried  a  brick  loose,'  he  said.  Well — " 
Svistkov  paused  and  spat  out.  "He  was  a  desperate 
fellow,  this  Fitik.  He  could  do  anything.  He  was 
caught  in  Odessa.  Well,  a  kitchen,  he  said.  We  began 
to  argue  who  should  go  first?  The  first  day  eighteen 
men  ran  away.  And  I  was  among  them.  We  went 
through  the  kitchen.     I  even  met  the  sentry  officer. ' ' 

"Well?" 

"I  met  him.  He  said:  *  Where  are  you  going?' 
'  For  hot  water, '  I  said.     That 's  all. " 

"For  hot  water?"  Kolka  repeated.  "That's  great! 
You  were  lucky!" 


What  Never  Happened  411 

Aleksandr  had  heard  of  this  escape,  the  incredible 
escape  of  thirty-seven  grenadiers.  But  he  could  not 
imagine  how  Svistkov,  so  awkward,  indifferent  and 
sulky,  had  climbed  down  a  rope  in  full  view  of  the  sentry 
at  the  gates.  Svistkov 's  lazy  way  of  talking,  his  low 
voice  and  his  inexpressive  dull  eyes  embarrassed  him. 
"Did  Tutushkin  mean  him?"  he  thought,  almost  with 
relief,  and  threw  away  his  cigarette  butt. 

"Go  on." 

"Then  I  joined  Vladimir  Ivanovich." 

"What  were  you  doing?" 

"Drinking,"  Kolka  put  in  hilariously. 

"What  do  you  mean — drinking?"  Svistkov  frowned 
and  flushed.  It  was  strange  to  see  his  tanned  soldier 
face  grow  red  with  anger  and  embarrassment.  He 
waved  his  hand  in  indignation  and  said  in  a  tone  of  of- 
fence, without  looking  at  Aleksandr: 

"He'd  better  keep  quiet.  But  it's  so.  I  must  con- 
fess, Vladimir  Ivanovich  discharged  me  for  drinking. 
But  I  really  don't  drink  any  more." 

"Why  not?" 

"I  swore  off." 

"And  you  don't  drink?" 

"No,  sir,  I  don't  drink." 

"Not  a  drop?" 

"Not  a  drop." 

"I'll  quit  the  cards, 
I'll  quit  billiards, 
The  bitter  vodka  I'll  debar. 
I'll  work  by  day, 
Begin  to  pray, 
I'll  be  conductor  on  a  car." 

Kolka  began  to  sing  derisively  in  a  falsetto  voice.    He 


412  "What  Never  Happened 

sat  on  the  grass  in  Turkish  fashion,  his  feet  under  him, 
and  he  blinked  up  at  the  sun.  He  looked  bronze  colour 
in  the  hot  rays — a  red  cap,  red  hair,  red  hands,  and  a 
torn,  badly-fitting  red  coat. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?"  Svistkov  turned  on 
him. 

"Nothing." 

' '  What  are  you  singing  ?  What  do  you  mean  by  those 
words?  Perhaps  you  know  something?  Speak  up,  if 
you  do." 

"What  do  I  know?  You  funny  fellow!  My  grand- 
father knew,  but  he  died  long  ago." 

"Then  what  are  you  singing  about?" 

"Singing,  When  one  drinks,  he  sings.  My  soul 
sings,  but  I  have  no  voice." 

Aleksandr  frowned.  "He  ran  away,  was  drinking, 
discharged  for  it,  drinks  no  more.  And  what  a  mur- 
derous face!  And  R-osenstem  advised  me  to  accept 
him."  He  lighted  another  cigarette  and  looked  at 
Svistkov  with  his  cold  blue  eyes. 

"Why  did  you  join  the  band?" 

Svistkov  straightened  his  moustaches. 

"I  can't,"  he  answered  hoarsely.  "I  had  lived 
enough — I  can't — " 

"He  can't  stand  it,"  Kolka  put  in,  winking  one  eye. 

"Yes,  I  can't.     Of  course — there — " 

"Why?" 

"W^hat's  the  use  of  questioning  me,  Aleksandr  Niko- 
layevich?"  Svistkov  answered  gloomily,  and  began  to 
roll  a  cigarette.  "My  God,  it's  all  plain.  Nothing  to 
eat,  no  land.  What  can  a  fellow  do?  Yuz  has  a  mil- 
lion acres.    And  I?    What  have  I?    Where  is  justice 


What  Never  Happened  413 

in  the  world  ?  I  am  for  land  and  freedom, ' '  he  finished 
resolutely  and  wiped  his  face. 

Somewhere  near  them  in  the  bushes  a  bird  twittered 
cautiously.  The  sun  was  no  longer  overhead,  but  had 
sunk  behind  the  birches.  Across  the  bench  a  blue 
shadow  was  falling.  "For  land  and  freedom,"  Alek- 
sandr  said  to  himself  in  anger.  "They  are  all  for  land 
and  freedom."  Now  he  was  sure  that  Svistkov  was  de- 
ceiving him.  The  suspicion  was  so  strong  that  he  could 
hardly  keep  it  to  himself.  But  he  restrained  himself 
and  said  nothing.  Kolka  turned  over,  and  smiling  and 
leaning  back  on  the  grass,  said  simply : 

"But  when  I  escaped,  it  was  a  great  escape.  Not 
merely  a  hole  to  poke  through.     My  God,  it's  a  joke !" 

* '  You  have  escaped,  too  ? ' ' 

"I  had  the  honour.  Very  simple.  I  was  caught  in 
Nizhni  in  proper  shape.  I  was  brought  before  the  chief. 
He  looked  so  stem,  was  frowning  and  fidgeting. 
'Your  name?'  I  was  silent.  'Your  name?'  I  was  si- 
lent. 'Will  you  answer?'  'I  won't.'  'Take  him 
away.'  I  was  taken  away.  Two  soldiers  were  leading 
me  along  the  street.  It  was  evening.  I  looked  around. 
An  alley  to  the  right — downhill.  I  thought  a  little. 
Eh,  take  a  chance.  Risk  is  the  spice  of  life,  I  spit  on 
them  all.  Anyway  my  head  wasn't  safe.  The  soldiers 
were  something  like  him,  not  men,  but  monuments,"  he 
pointed  to  Svistkov.  "I  invoked  the  help  of  God,  and 
rolled  down  the  hill.  I  heard  them  shoot,  but  it  was 
dark.  They  couldn't  aim,  couldn't  catch  me.  I  jumped 
over  a  fence  and  ran  with  all  my  might.  Ran  and  ran 
till  I  was  exhausted.     So  help  me  God,  it's  the  truth." 

"And  why  were  you  arrested?" 


414  What  Never  Happened 

'  *  That  was  when  Vladimir  Ivanovich  was  living.  For 
an  expropriation." 

"Were  you  arrested  alone?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Where  did  you  escape  to?" 

"Back  to  the  squad." 

'  *  Am  I  not  ashamed  of  myself  ? ' '  Aleksandr  bethought 
himself.  "They  both  worked  with  their  lives,  indeed. 
Both  escaped  by  a  miracle.  How  can  I  suspect  them? 
But  who  is  the  provocateur?  Surely  not  Anna?  Not 
Vanya?     Not  Rosenstern  ? " 

Kolka  got  up,  and  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  looked 
slyly  at  Aleksandr  as  if  wanting  to  show  that  he  kneiv 
his  oppressive  doubts  and  was  not  surprised  by  them. 

"What  did  you  in  the  squad?" 

' '  What  did  I  do  ?  Ha-ha !  What  didn  't  I  do— that 's 
what  you  should  ask.  I  was  everj^thing,  saw  everything, 
tried  everything.  I  may  say  I  had  my  innings  in  this 
world.  I  was  a  worker  in  a  factory,  a  shepherd  in 
Savara,  and  a  tramp.  And  after  Comrade  Freze  's  death 
I  remained  all  alone,  like  a  mushroom  under  a  birch.  I 
have  no  one.  I  couldn't  very  well  go  home.  At  home 
in  the  Ural  there  is  a-plenty,  cold  springs,  deep  lakes, 
wild  forests,  meadows.  It 's  a  garden  of  Eden.  But  it 's 
not  my  lot  to  be  in  Eden.  Ha-ha-ha!"  he  laughed  his 
rollicking  laugh. 

Aleksandr 's  frown  deepened.  Talk  leads  to  nothing 
and  he  had  learned  nothing.  Kolka  was  so  happy  and 
so  healthy,  his  laughter  was  so  contagious,  his  eyes 
sparkled  so  provokingly  that  Aleksandr  felt  Jishamed 
again.  "A  man  like  that  doesn't  lie.  He  can't  lie? 
He's  too  hearty,"  he  decided  in  his  soul. 

"Do  you  drink,  too?" 


What  Never  Happened  415 

"  I  ? "  Kolka  answered  unhesitatingly.  ' '  I  'm  no  saint. 
To  drink  and  to  loaf  and  be  rich."  His  face  suddenly- 
darkened.  He  paused,  and  then  began  to  sing  at  the 
top  of  his  voice: 

"Farewell,  my  Odessa, 
Farewell,  quarantine, 
I'm  going  in  exile 
To  far  Sakhaline. 
Just  two  pairs  of  stockings, 
Chains  my  legs  to  grip, 
And  four  wooden  shoes, 
Then  off  for  the  trip!" 

He  sang  in  a  wail,  as  the  peasants  sing,  and  while  he 
sang  Aleksandr  kept  his  eyes  on  him.  "How  could  I 
have  suspicions  of  him?"  he  thought  in  despair.  "But 
if  it  isn't  Svistkov  and  if  it  isn't  Kolka,  who  is  it?  Is 
there  really  a  provocateur  among  us?  Perhaps  Tu- 
tushkin  lied?" 

The  sun  was  setting,  but  it  was  still  hot,  and  the 
birds  kept  up  their  singing.  Sokolniki  was  deserted. 
Aleksandr  walked  slowly  towards  IMoscow  and  meditated 
on  how  easy  it  is  to  slander  a  man. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

A  WEEK  passed.  Rosenstem  had  gone  south  on 
Party  business.  Aleksandr,  lost  in  suspicion, 
ready  to  believe  that  Tutushkin  had  lied,  de- 
cided after  some  deliberation  to  consult  the  squad.  He 
had  a  clear  perception  of  the  absurdity  of  the  step,  but 
hoped  to  be  able  to  unearth  the  treachery  in  a  serious 
talk.  The  meeting  was  to  take  place  in  Anna's  home  in 
the  furnished-room  house,  Kerch,  on  Arbata  Street. 
Anna,  having  the  custody  of  the  dynamite,  occupied  a 
spacious,  nicely  furnished  flat,  with  a  separate  entrance 
on  Povarskaya  Street.  As  he  was  taking  off  his  hat  and 
coat  in  the  narrow  hall,  which  was  crowded  with  trunks, 
Aleksandr  heard  the  conceited  words: 

**The  peasants?  Ah,  the  poor  famished  peasants!" 
It  was  Kolka  speaking  laughingly.  "The  much-suffer- 
ing Russian  people?  Nonsense.  I  have  seen  enough  of 
these  people!  Plenty!  Much  obliged.  The  peasant  is 
very  well  fed,  if  you  want  to  know.  A  peasant  will  get 
drunk,  have  a  fight  with  the  landowner,  will  sleep  it  off 
and  will  be  afraid  of  a  pig.  Where  are  you  going, 
honest  people?  To  get  spanked,  little  father,  to  get 
spanked. ' '  He  imitated  the  peasants  in  a  wailing  voice. 
"And  they  go.  Creep  along  on  their  poor  horses.  Ha- 
ha-ha !  So  help  me  God,  they  go.  Slaves !  You  can  do 
with  them  whatever  you  please.  Take  Luzhenovsky — 
he  ate  them  with  his  gruel.  Well,  did  the  peasants  kill 
him?  They'll  stand  anything.  Christ  suffered  and 
bade  us  suffer.    Damned  fools ! '  * 

418 


What  Never  Happened  417 

''Don't  talk  that  way.  I  don't  like  it."  Aleksandr 
recognized  the  harsh,  ringing,  and  somewhat  masculine 
voice  of  Anna  with  a  Nizliny  Novgorod  accent  on  the 
"  0. "  *  *  You  ought  to  be  ashamed.  I  lived  in  a  village, 
too.    I  know  as  well  as  you  do.    Do  you  remember: 

"These  poor  hamlets. 
This  poverty  of  nature. 
The  land  of  long  suffering, 
The  land  of  the  Russian  people! 
The  proud  look  of  stranger 
Shall  never  see  or  know 
What's  hid  and  shines  mysteriously 
Within  your  humble  nakedness." 

"And  aren't  you  a  Russian?  Aren't  you  a  peasant? 
You  mustn't  curse,  Nikolay,  but  love  and  forgive,"  she 
added  in  a  softer  voice. 

Aleksandr  smiled.  "And  forgive.  When  I'm  not 
there,  she  argues,  recites  from  Tiutchev,  and  when  I 
come  in,  she  drops  her  head  and  is  silent.  A  fine  way 
of  being  conspirative. " 

In  the  big,  light  room,  at  a  table  set  for  tea,  sat  Solo- 
mon Moiseyevich  and  Vanya.  Solomon  Moiseyevich 
was  talking  in  whispers  to  Svistkov.  At  the  window, 
with  his  back  to  the  comrades,  sat  Abram.  AVhen 
Aleksandr  entered,  Anna  dropped  her  eyes  and  flushed. 

Aleksandr  glanced  at  the  familiar  faces,  which  now 
seemed  impenetrable  to  him.  His  eyes  stopped  at 
Vanya.  Vanya,  black-haired,  with  high  cheekbones,  was 
dressed  in  a  badly  fitting  coat  and  was  rolling  a  ciga- 
rette thoughtfully.  He  looked  straight  ahead,  as  if  he 
saw  nothing  and  was  thinking  of  something  important 
and  oppressive. 

"What's   the   matter   with   him?"    flashed   through 


418  What  Never  Happened 

Aleksandr's  mind.  He  greeted  all,  seated  himself,  and 
began  his  prepared  speech. 

"Recently  I  began  to  notice  that  we  were  being  spied 
upon.  I  am  convinced  I'm  not  mistaken.  In  fact,  I 
know  it 's  so.  The  question  is,  what  is  the  cause  ?  There 
can  be  only  two  causes,  either  our  own  carelessness,  or 
treachery — a  provocateur."  He  said  the  last  word 
firmly,  almost  carelessly,  as  if  not  attaching  much 
weight  to  it.  "As  to  myself,  I  think  there  cannot  be  a 
provocateur  among  us.  But  I  should  like  to  know  what 
the  comrades  have  to  say." 

He  hardly  finished  when  Vanya  brought  his  fist  down 
on  the  table.     The  spoons  jumped,  and  a  glass  broke. 

"A  nice  business!  We  surely  are  being  spied  upon. 
I  was  going  to  speak  to  you  about  it  myself.  I  noticed 
it  long  ago.  Something  is  wrong.  There  is  a  legion  of 
spies  and  detectives.  Not  a  spot  to  spit  on  even. 
Moths!" 

"Tutushkin  said  the  watch  was  relaxed,  that  there 
were  almost  no  spies,  so  as  not  to  arouse  our  suspicion. 
So  how  could  Vanya  notice  anything?"  Aleksandr 
thought  in  apprehension,  but  recalled  that  Vanya  had 
killed  Cossacks.  "Killed  Cossacks,  fought  in  Moscow, 
worked  with  Andriusha.  No,  of  course  not,  not  he. 
Then  who  is  it?"  he  asked  himself  for  the  hundredth 
time. 

'  *  Of  course  there  is  a  provocateur, ' '  Vanya  was  shout- 
ing, his  black  eyes  sparkling.  "What  are  you  thinking 
of?  Indian  cocks  are  thinking.  We  live  like  monks, 
we  don't  say  a  word,  don't  see  each  other.  Where  do 
the  spies  come  from?  Passports?  But  the  passports 
are  first  rate.  They  are  copies,  no  fakes.  Who  knows 
where  I  live  ?    Nobody,  nobody  but  you,  Aleksandr  Niko- 


"What  Never  Happened  '419 

layevich.  Then  why  are  there  spies  at  my  gate  ?  "Where 
did  they  come  from?  Or  am  I  blind?  Can't  I  tell  a 
spy  ?  Am  I  losing  my  mind  ?  Suffering  from  a  mania  ? 
Absolutely,  some  one  has  betrayed  us.  I  was  going  to 
tell  you  long  ago.  Scoundrels!  Pigs!  This  is  no 
work,  it 's  filth !     The  Party  is  drowning  in  filth. ' ' 

He  jumped  up  and  began  to  pace  the  room,  pale  with 
anger.  Abram  did  not  turn  his  head.  Svistkov 
breathed  heavily  and  stroked  his  moustachios.  Kolka 
was  the  only  one  that  became  indignant.  His  big,  thick- 
lipped  face  showed  a  feeling  of  deep  offence. 

' '  What  is  it  all  about  ? "  he  drawled,  looking  at  Vanya 
gloomily.  ''There  is  all  sorts  of  talk  around  here.  Of 
course  there  is.  Who  says  anything  else?  Treachery 
is  treachery,  the  devil  take  it.  There  are  plenty  of 
knaves  in  this  world.  Very  many  of  them.  But  I'll 
tell  you  this.  You  know  each  other  well,  you're  quite 
apart,  but  I  and  he  there — "  he  pointed  his  finger  at 
Svistkov,  ''we're  new  men.  We've  never  worked  in  the 
Party.  Who  knows  us?  Business  first  of  all.  We  will 
go."  He  shook  his  thick  red  hair.  "Yes,  we'll  go,  and 
you  will  feel  quieter  and  we  easier.  Don't  be  angry. 
To  listen  to  this!  I've  never  heard  anything  like  it. 
God  had  spared  me  before.  No,  better  let  me  go,  Alek- 
sandr  Nikolayevich.  Somebody  can  feel  and  insult. 
Good-bye." 

He  sighed  and  began  to  look  for  his  hat.  Svistkov 
breathed  heavily  and  pulled  his  cap  down  on  his  head. 

"Wait  a  minute,  comrades,"  Solomon  Moiseyevich  be- 
gan in  a  conciliatory  tone.  He  was  known  to  the  whole 
Party,  and  the  whole  Party  loved  him.  In  his  younger 
days  he  had  taken  part  in  an  affair  of  the  old  party  of 
"People's  Freedom,"  and  after  serving  a  term  at  hard 


420  What  Never  Happened 

labour  he  had  returned  to  his  terrorist  activity.  He 
was  a  tall  old  man,  somewhat  bent,  but  still  vigorous, 
and  he  had  kind,  shining  eyes. 

"We  all  know  each  other  and  of  course  we  trust  each 
other.  Otherwise  we  wouldn't  be  here.  Put  your  cap 
down,  Nikolay,  and  j'ou,  Svistkov,  put  your  cap  down. 
Still,  though  I  trust  all  comrades,  I  think  Vanya  is  right, 
and  not  Aleksandr  Nikolayevich.  Vanya  says  some  one 
has  betrayed  us.  We  must  confess  it  is  quite  probable. 
Out  in  Kara,  in  the  hard  labour  prisons,  we  used  to  dig 
tunnels  for  escape  purposes  every  month,  and  the  gov- 
ernment invariably  discovered  them.  I  remember  one 
tunnel  we  dug  was  already  carried  beyond  the  prison 
limits.  And  of  course,  the  usual  failure.  Some  said  it 
was  an  accident — the  keeper  had  discovered  it.  But  to- 
day an  accident,  tomorrow  an  accident,  and  the  next 
day,  a  betrayal.  So  it  is  in  this  case.  Have  the  spies 
noticed  us?  Through  their  own  diligence?  Yes?  No, 
of  course,  some  one  has  betrayed  us.  But  does  that  in- 
dicate— let  us  be  quite  frank,  without  any  fear  of  of- 
fence— that  one  of  us  is  a  provocateur?  No,  it  does  not. 
It  may  be  that  one  of  us  has  told  somebody  something 
unintentionally,  out  of  carelessness,  of  course.  Well, 
and  rumours  spread.  And  of  course  they  reached  the 
police,  the  secret  service.  Colonel  von  Schoen.  And  it 
follows  that  if  any  one  has  betrayed  the  troop,  it  does 
not  mean  that  you,  Aleksandr  Nikolayevich,  or  I,  or  any 
one  of  the  comrades,  is  an  informer.  And  we  must  not 
get  excited.  It  is  written  in  the  Bible :  '  If  thou  be 
wise,  thou  shalt  be  wise  for  thyself :  but  if  thou  scornest, 
thou  alone  shalt  bear  it.'  So  it's  better  to  be  wise. 
Isn't  that  so,  Nikolay?" 

Aleksandr  was  impressed.    "Of  course,  it  was  the  re- 


What  Never  Happened  421 

suit  of  blabbing,"  he  thought.  "Some  one  was  merely 
too  talkative.  Perhaps  Rosenstern  himself.  What 
guarantee  is  there  that  everything  is  all  right  in  the 
new  committee  ? ' '  And  as  is  usually  the  case  when  one 
wants  to  prove  himself  in  the  right,  Aleksandr  like  a 
child  accepted  the  argument  as  correct.  He  came  to 
believe  that  Tutushkin  had  lied,  and  the  members  of  the 
troop  were  all  honest,  and  there  was  no  need  of  degrad- 
ing investigations.  Instantly,  he  felt  relieved,  as  if 
there  had  been  no  spying  and  no  danger  of  arrest. 
He  looked  at  Kolka  affectionately.  "He's  offended. 
Could  a  provocateur  feel  offended?  Could  an  informer 
want  to  leave?"  But  Vanya,  his  excitement  undimin- 
ished, came  over  to  the  table  and  exclaimed  with  re- 
proach in  his  voice : 

**So,  Solomon  Moiseyevich,  rumours  have  spread, 
have  they?  But  where  from?  I  say,  we  live  like 
monks.  Our  troop  is  more  like  a  monastery.  To  whom 
can  we  write  letters?  Home,  to  our  girls,  or  where? 
Perhaps  you  have  been  tempted  to  write  a  letter?  Or 
I?  Or  Anna  Petrovna?  Or  you,  Kolka?  Or  you, 
Svistkov?  You,  Abram?  Confess.  This  is  no  joke. 
Letters,  Solomon  Moiseyevich?  Letters?  Where  could 
letters  come  from?  And  we  have  nobody  to  talk  to. 
We  are  not  accustomed  to  tell  tales.  We  are  not  new  at 
this  game.  Should  we  take  any  measures?  But  what 
measures  can  we  take?  If  we  don't  know  who  the  in- 
former is  ?  If  we  knew.  But  now  what  ?  Disband  the 
troop  ?  Or  should  we  sit  and  wait  until  we  're  trapped  ? 
I  trust  everybody.  Where  is  the  insult?  But  I  insist 
there  is  a  traitor.  Absolutely  there  is  treachery.  It's 
a  pig-stall!" 

He  turned  on  his  heel  and  began  to  pace  up  and 


422  What  Never  Happened 

down  in  the  room  again.  Solomon  Moiseyevich  was  si- 
lent. The  room  was  as  quiet  as  a  field  before  a  thunder- 
shower.  Abram  drummed  on  the  window  pane  with  his 
fingers  and  turned  slowly  to  Vanya. 

"Ha!     If  there  is  treachery,  we  must  find  it  out." 

"Find  it  out?"  Kolka  asked,  and  threw  his  cap  on 
the  table.  "Find  it,  and  we'll  show  it  to  you.  Say, 
Svistkov,  let's  both  look  for  it," 

Svistkov  looked  at  him  sullenly. 

"Kidding  again,  you  bagpipe!" 

Aleksandr  felt  his  head  spinning. 

The  kind,  affectionate  old  man,  Anna  with  downcast 
eyes  and  sunken  cheeks,  sullen  Svistkov  and  laughing 
Kolka,  good  natured  Abram  and  indignant  Vanya,  Ros- 
enstern,  who  could  not  come  to  their  aid — all  were  puz- 
zling him — impenetrable,  wicked  people,  one  of  whom 
was  a  Judas.  The  feeling  of  disgust  came  upon  him 
again.  "A  boy  at  the  pond,  and  fairies,  one  of  them  a 
witch.  Of  course,  a  witch.  But  which  one  is  the 
witch?"  Unable  to  find  an  answer,  he  said  with  harsh 
emphasis : 

"Well,  what's  to  be  done?     Tell  us." 

"I  have  something  to  tell  you." 

"You,  Abram?" 

"What  is  it?" 

"Don't  ask  me  now.    Later." 
"Why?" 
"I  said  later." 
"Say  it  now." 
"Ha!     Now  it's  impossible." 

"What  does  he  want?  What  can  he  tell  me?"  Alek- 
sandr thought,  but  without  surprise  or  apprehension. 


What  Never  Happened  423 

He  well  knew  that  even  the  deceitful  conversation  had 
not  exposed  the  informer.  Degenerated  terror  had  not 
been  saved.  Vanya  continued  to  pace  the  room  like  a 
furious  wolf,  the  white-bearded  old  man  sat  all  bent, 
Anna  kept  her  modest  silence,  Kolka  still  had  an  air  of 
wounded  pride,  and  Svistkov,  as  angry  as  before,  was 
breathing  heavily.  It  was  impossible,  almost  sinful,  to 
believe  that  there,  in  that  secret  house  on  Arbata  Street, 
in  the  cosy  room,  was  a  provocateur,  the  man  who  would 
have  them  all  hanged  the  next  day.  The  room  was  still, 
and  the  rain  was  beating  on  the  window  unceasingly. 


H 


CHAPTER  XV 

<<'J'  ^ERE  I  am,"  said  Abram,  with  a  confiding 
smile,  and  offered  Aleksandr  his  broad  hairy 
hand.  "Excuse  me.  I  have  brought  Solo- 
mon Moiseyevich  along.  I  want  both  of  you  to  know 
what  I  have  to  say.  Maybe  it  won't  please  you. 
Maybe  you  won't  like  it.  Maybe  you'll  think  what  does 
he  know  to  teach  us  things?  Maybe  you  don't  like  to 
listen  to  me.  Maybe  you  think  you  know  without  me. 
But  do  me  the  favour  and  listen  to  me." 

Abram  and  Solomon  Moiseyevich  had  for  once  neg- 
lected the  rules  of  secrecy.  They  had  not  made  an 
appointment  with  Aleksandr  for  some  remote  alley  in 
]\Ioscow,  in  Zamoskvoriechy,  or  Solkolniki,  or  beyond  the 
Tverskaya  Gate,  but  came  direct  to  his  rooms  in  the 
Hotel  Metropol.  After  their  meeting  at  Anna's  the 
usual  cautiousness  had  lost  its  meaning.  Everybody 
knew  the  band  was  being  watched,  and  today  or  tomor- 
row might  see  them  on  the  scaffold.  But  no  one  paid 
any  attention  to  this.  The  provocateur  had  not  been 
discovered,  and  spies  were  considered  a  secondary  and 
insignificant  evil, 

''Listen  to  me."  Abram  glanced  with  disapproval 
at  the  patterned  rug  covering  the  whole  floor,  and 
seated  himself  on  the  edge  of  an  arm-chair.  He  felt  un- 
comfortable on  the  velvet  cushion,  but  there  were  no 
plain  chairs  in  the  room,  and  the  bed  stood  behind  a 
muslin  curtain.  He  tucked  his  immense  feet  close  to 
the  chair  and  heaved  a  deep  sigh. 

424 


"What  Never  Happened  425 

"When  you  came  and  said  Doctor  Berg  was  a  provoca- 
teur, I  immediately  said  to  myself,  '  All  right,  then  he  '11 
be  killed.'  And  you  see,  is  he  alive?  But  I  also  said 
something  else  to  myself.  I  said,  Abram,  what  is  the 
intelligentzia?  American  grafters!  They're  always 
dirty!  They  work,  but  why?  Who  knows?  The  devil 
himself  could  break  his  leg.  Don't  be  offended,  I  don't 
mean  you.  Ippolit  was  one  of  the  intelligentzia,  too. 
And  still,  even  the  wise  men  would  not  be  able  to  un- 
derstand why  they  take  part  in  the  revolution.  AVhat 
do  they  want  Socialism  for  ?  They  are  not  like  us.  We 
are  workingmen.  We  know  what  we  want.  We  want 
to  live  like  human  beings.  That's  easy  to  see.  Well, 
so  I  thought,  what  is  there  surprising  about  a  Doctor 
Berg — probably  a  rich  man — being  a  provocateur? 
Maybe  he  got  frightened  and  sold  out.  Very  important 
— sold  himself.  He  is  one  of  the  intelligentzia,  and  the 
intelligentzia  sell  themselves  out  every  day.  Aren't  the 
government  officials,  for  instance,  intellectuals?  And 
don't  they  sell  out?  Because,  what  is  government  serv- 
ice? It  means  to  work  against  the  people  and  be  paid 
for  it.  Ha!  So  of  course,  they  sell  themselves  out. 
And  I  said  to  myself,  Abram,  men  like  Doctor  Berg 
write  in  the  newspapers  that  the  Jews  eat  Christian 
blood,  such  men  exploit  the  poor,  such  as  he  hanged 
Ippolit,  such  as  he  incite  to  pogroms.  And  I  know 
what  pogroms  are.  Maybe  I  do.  Well,  I  did  w^hat  was 
necessary.  And  what  do  you  say?  Wasn't  Doctor 
Berg  a  snake  ? ' ' 

*  *  Make  your  story  shorter. ' ' 

"Shorter?    At  once.    But  please  listen  to  me." 

"I  am  listening," 

"Now  you  came  yesterday  again,  'Comrades,  we  are 


426  What  Never  Happened 

being  followed ;  one  of  us  is  a  provocateur. '  True,  you 
didn't  say  so,  but  Vanya  did.  But  that  makes  no  differ- 
ence because  you  think  so,  too.  And  perhaps  it's  true. 
I  have  long  noticed  that  we  are  being  spied  upon.  I 
have  also  asked  myself.  Tell  me,  Abram,  if  you  are  no 
fool,  what  does  it  all  mean?  What  does  it  mean  that 
there  are  spies  all  around?  Excuse  me" — he  turned  to 
Solomon  Moiseyevich — "that's  all  nonsense  about  let- 
ters or  careless  blabbing.  Nobody  wrote  any  letters  and 
nobody  could  blab.     That's  sure.     And  so  I  thought — " 

Abram 's  harsh  voice,  his  accent,  and  jerky  sentences, 
as  well  as  his  excited  womanish  face  were  disagreeable 
to  Aleksandr.  "He  drags  as  if  he  were  carrying  water. 
And  one  can't  understand  what  he  wants.  What  did  he 
come  for?  And  why  not  alone?  So  as  to  have  a  wit- 
ness? So  as  to  escape  examination?"  He  lighted  a 
cigarette  and  watched  the  yellowish  flame  of  the  match 
until  it  went  out.  He  threw  it  away  and  looked  at 
Abram  again.  "But  he  killed  Doctor  Berg.  .  .  .  The 
devil  knows ! ' '  Abram  was  lost  in  thought  and  fixed  his 
gaze  on  the  rug. 

"Well,  what  were  you  going  to  say?" 

* '  What  was  I  going  to  say  ?  Wait,  I  '11  tell  you  every- 
thing. So  I  thought,  suppose  there  really  is  a  knave 
in  the  band?  Who  can  he  be?  There  are  three  intel- 
lectuals among  us,  Aleksandr  Nikolayevich,  Solomon 
Moiseyevich,  and  Anna.  But  I  said  to  myself.  No, 
Abram.,  Aleksandr  Nikolayevich 's  brother  was  hanged. 
There  isn't  a  man  in  this  world  who  could  forget  it. 
Then  it's  not  he.  And  I  went  on;  well,  and  Solomon 
Moiseyevich?  But  I  answered  myself,  he  suffered  ten 
years  at  hard  labour.  Can  he  forget  his  sufferings? 
Will  he  sell  out  to  dirty  Von  Schoen?    Nonsense!    So 


Wliat  Never  Happened  427 

Anna  remains.  Perhaps  it's  she.  I  can't  vouch  for  her, 
but  I  asked  myself,  Abram,  do  you  trust  her?  And 
I  said,  I  trust  her.  Why  do  you  trust  her?  I  don't 
know.  Is  it  because  she  has  been  making  bombs? 
But  so  was  Doctor  Berg  making  bombs.  Who  knows? 
And  still  I  trust  her.  But  if  not  she,  not  you,  and  not 
you,  the  intellectuals — ha!"  He  passed  his  hand  across 
his  face.  "Then  one  of  us,  one  of  the  workingmen, 
must  be  the  provocateur.  We  sell  out,  we  do  harm  to 
ourselves,  don't  we?  I  asked  myself.  And  I  answered, 
What  do  you  mean,  who?  Take  yourself,  for  instance. 
You,  Abram,  are  an  honest  workingman,  aren't  you? 
Yes,  I  know  I  'm  an  honest  workingman.  Then  is  Vanya 
honest  or  is  he  a  knave  ?  Yes,  Vanya  is  an  honest  work- 
ingman, too.  How  do  I  know  he  is?  Because  he  has 
been  working  for  the  proletarian  cause  all  his  life.  He 
fought  at  barricades,  he  attacked  a  district  attorney 
with  a  bomb  in  his  hands,  and  when  I  said  that  to  my- 
self—" 

*'Do  you  mean  to  express  a  definite  suspicion?" 
Aleksandr  remarked  coldly. 

"Suspicion?  Why  suspicion?  I  haven't  expressed 
any  suspicion.  I  merely  say  what  I  think.  Ha !  I 
think  it's  either  Kolka  or  Svistkov.  We  don't  know 
them.  Do  you  know  them?  No?  Who  are  they? 
Answer  if  you  can.  Please  tell  me  what  they  were  do- 
ing when  they  were  with  the  anarchists.  With  Vo- 
lodya.  With  Freze.  Perhaps  they  were  not  working, 
but  dealing  in  fruits?  Who  can  vouch  for  this? 
Nikolay?  What  does  he  say  about  peasants?  Do  you 
vouch  for  him  ?  You  ?  But  I  have  not  come  to  tell  you 
just  this.  I  have  come  to  suggest  that  we  should  ar- 
range to  watch  them.    We  must  find  out  where  they  go, 


428  What  Never  Happened 

where  they  live,  when  they  think  nobody  can  see  them. 
Is  it  foolish?  I  say  one  of  them  is  a  scoundrel.  So  it 
is  clear  we  must  watch  them.  What  else  can  we  do? 
Well?" 

Abram  was  still  sitting  on  the  very  edge  of  the  chair. 

*  His  worn-out  linen  jacket  and  high  boots  gave  him  the 

appearance  of  a  well-to-do  Moscow  merchant,  not  of  a 

Jew.     He  dropped  his  thick  eyebrows  and  waited  shyly 

for  an  answer,  gazing  at  the  floor. 

''That  means,  you  propose  that  we  should  organize 
a  secret  service  department?"  Aleksandr  replied  in 
surprise  and  thought,  "Who  could  propose  such  strong 
measures?"  And  suddenly  Abram,  whom  he  had 
trusted  the  day  before,  the  honest,  good-natured  tanner 
Abram,  with  callouses  on  his  hands  and  a  Jewish  ac- 
cent, became  almost  detestable  to  him.  And  he  felt  a 
hatred  for  the  band,  where  such  insulting  words  were 
spoken  and  there  was  no  work,  but  a  nameless  spying, 
a  hatred  for  the  Party  and  the  revolution  and  even  for 
terror.  "And  my  own  investigations?"  he  recalled. 
"If  it  is  permissible  to  question,  why  not  to  spy?  And 
Abram  may  be  right  after  all." 

Solomon  Moiseyevich,  tall,  round-shouldered,  and 
grey,  in  a  buttoned  black  frock  coat,  made  a  few  steps 
across  the  room  and  stopped  in  front  of  Abram. 

"You're  wrong,  Abram."  He  jerked  his  neck  nerv- 
ously, coughed  and  fixed  his  collar,  which  was  evidently 
bothering  him.  "You  imagine  that  either  Kolka  or 
Svistkov  is  the  provocateur.  But  if  they  should  think 
wisely,  they  would  probably  suspect  you  or  me  or  Anna. 
Then  ought  we  to  watch  everybody?  But  would  that 
be  terror?  No,  it  would  be  the  same  as  the  secret  serv- 
ice.    I  think  it  is  all  our  own  fault.     It  is  naive  to  as- 


What  Never  Happened  429 

sume  that  treachery  is  an  accident.  If  our  conscience 
would  really  prevent  us  from  spying  and  attempting  to 
penetrate  into  people's  hearts,  if  the  Party  were  purer, 
if  there  were  no  attempts  at  leadership,  no  fainthearted- 
ness, no  irresponsibility  and  robberies,  if  everybody 
would  serve  the  revolution  honestly  and  with  real  de- 
votion, then  there  would  be  no  Doctor  Bergs.  He  could 
not  have  been,  he  would  have  been  exposed  in  ten  min- 
utes. But  now  it's  too  late.  You  know  the  Psalmist 
says:  'Save  me,  O  God;  for  the  waters  are  come  in 
unto  my  soul.  I  sink  in  deep  mire.'  We  have  sunk  in 
mire.  "We  have  come  into  deep  waters.  But  we  cannot 
spy  upon  each  other." 

"Ha,  and  why  not?"  Abram  flushed.  "Spy  on  me, 
if  you  want  to.  Please  do.  An  honest  man  is  not  afraid 
of  anything.  How  can  we  discover  treachery  any  other 
way?" 

"Then,  Abram,  we  ought  not  discover  it." 

"What  else  should  we  do?" 

"I  don't  know." 

After  Abram  and  Solomon  Moiseyevich  had  left,  and 
Aleksandr  remained  alone,  he  could  not  fall  asleep  for 
a  long  time. 

He  felt  uneasy  in  this  hotel,  where  dozens  of  people 
were  living,  hostile  and  indifferent  strangers,  where  bells 
were  constantly  ringing,  where  unfamiliar  voices  were 
calling  to  each  other,  where  a  man  was  on  constant  duty 
at  the  entrance,  and  where  he  himself  was  not  Aleksandr 
Bolotov,  not  an  ofiScer  of  the  Russian  army,  but  a  repre- 
sentative of  a  London  firm,  the  Englishman  McGoog. 

"Hypocrites,"  he  thought  gloomily.  "  'Save  me — I 
sink  in  deep  mire.'  Abram,  Kolka,  Svistkov — Svistkov, 
Kolka,  Abram — Svistkov,  Kolka,  Abram."     He  did  not 


430  What  Never  Happened 

turn  on  the  electric  light,  but  sat  in  the  comer  of  the 
couch  and  peered  long  into  the  darkness.  His  whole 
revolutionary  life  passed  before  his  eyes.  Arseny  Ivan- 
ovich,  Vera  Andreyevna,  the  committee  meetings,  Doctor 
Berg,  terror,  Tutushkin  and  lying.  But  I  have  done 
nothing.     Happy  is  Andriusha." 

AVheels  rumbled  by  outside  on  the  Theatre  Plaza. 
Raising  himself  on  his  elbow  and  grasping  his  revolver 
with  his  free  hand,  Aleksandr  listened  to  the  growing 
noise.  "When  it  died  away  and  all  was  still  again,  he 
suddenly  recalled  Kolka  the  Bum.  Aleksandr  distinctly 
saw  his  thick-lipped  face  with  red  moustaches,  his  ironi- 
cal greenish  eyes  and  heavy  body.  He  saw  him  in  Sokol- 
niki,  under  the  bush,  crimson  in  the  hot  rays  of  the 
sun,  and  he  heard  his  rollicking  peals  of  laughter.  "I'll 
quit  the  cards,  I'll  quit  billiards,  the  bitter  vodka  I'll 
debar."  Without  knowing  why,  Aleksandr  suddenly 
felt  relieved.  Happy  in  this  feeling,  yet  fearful  of  it, 
he  leaned  his  head  on  the  pillow.  Suddenly  he  jumped 
up.  "Of  course,  Kolka,  Kolka!  Not  Svistkov,  not 
Vanya,  but  Kolka!"  He  could  not  tell  where  his  con- 
viction came  from,  whether  from  Abram's  suggestion,  or 
Kolka 's  ridicule,  his  strange  remark  about  peasants,  and 
his  quarrel  with  Svistkov.  Perhaps  it  simply  came  from 
his  own  indefinable  feelings,  which  had  haunted  him  the 
last  few  days.  But  noAV  he  believed  without  doubt  that 
he  had  discovered  the  treachery.  It  was  Kolka  who  had 
sold  himself  out.  A  foreboding  of  the  truth,  one  of 
those  prophetic  visions  which  penetrate  the  substance  of 
things.  "The  witch,"  he  whispered,  and  smiled.  "Yes, 
the  witch,  but  now  he  is  not  terrifying.  My  God,  give 
me  the  happiness  to  help  save  Russia,  like  a  spark  in  the 
flame."    An  hour  later  he  was  sound  asleep. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  following  day  Aleksandr  took  the  first  train 
to  Kuntzevo.  After  a  two-liour  search  he 
found  what  he  was  looking  for,  a  detached 
country  home  for  rent.  The  house  was  of  wood,  had 
two  stories  and  a  mezzanine  and  a  garden  in  poor  con- 
dition. The  watchman,  a  half -deaf  old  drunkard,  lived 
half  a  mile  away  near  the  railroad  tracks,  and  the  house 
was  entirely  vacant.  Aleksandr  left  a  deposit,  took  the 
keys  and  gave  notice  that  he  would  take  possession  in  a 
day  or  two.  On  returning  to  the  city  he  summoned 
Kolka  to  the  Hotel  Metropol,  gave  him  his  new  address, 
and  told  him  to  be  in  Kuntzevo  that  evening  on  very  im- 
portant business.  Kolka  said  he  would  be  there  at  ten 
0  'clock. 

At  a  quarter  to  ten  Aleksandr  arrived  there.  He 
opened  the  creaking  door,  looked  at  it  again  on  ^he 
inside  and  took  a  candle  out  of  his  pocket.  Lighting 
it,  he  placed  it  on  the  table.  He  saw  a  dilapidated 
ceiling,  dirty  torn  wallpaper  and  wretched  furniture 
in  covers.  Again  he  felt  oppressed.  ** Suppose  it's 
not  Kolka?  Suppose  it's  Svistkov?  Why  am  I  so 
sure  it's  Kolka?"  he  kept  on  thinking,  while  he  listened 
to  the  splash  of  the  rain  outside  and  the  racket  of  mice 
under  the  stove.  He  took  out  his  revolver  and  examined 
it  carefully.     It  was  of  army  make,  a  Nogan. 

The  wind  blew  through  the  cracks  in  the  walls.  The 
bluish  flame  of  the  candle  was  uneven,  now  bending 
down  to  the  table,  now  standing  straight  up,  now  burst- 

431 


432  What  Never  Happened 

ing  out  in  a  flickering  tongue.  Black  shadows  stretched 
into  the  comers.  The  one  area  of  light  was  the  faint, 
trembling  spot  that  the  candlelight  cast  on  the  three- 
legged  table.  Aleksandr  did  not  have  to  wait  long.  He 
heard  a  voice  above  the  sound  of  the  rain.  He  trem- 
bled, and  went  with  heavy  steps  out  on  the  damp  bal- 
cony. 

"Good  evening,  Aleksandr  Nikolayevich. "  Kolka 
made  an  obeisance,  winking  and  shaking  his  wet  cap. 
"Why  do  you  lock  yourself  in?  A  clever  thief  can 
steal  even  from  behind  a  lock.  Ha-ha-ha!  I  was 
knocking  and  knocking,  but  not  a  sound.  I  had  to 
shout.  Have  you  rented  this  country  house?'*  He 
stole  a  glance  around  the  room.  "It's  my  business  to 
ask,  and  yours  to  give  no  answer.  If  you'll  allow  my 
curiosity,  what's  the  purpose?" 

"I  guess  it's  needed,"  Aleksandr  replied  drily. 

"Needed?  That  means  it's  none  of  my  business. 
'Keep  away,  fellow.'  "Well,  well,  all  right,  I  won't  pry, 
A]jpksandr  Nikolayevich,  I  won't  pry.  What's  wrong, 
anyway?     Can't  a  fellow  make  a  joke,  by  God?" 

Kolka  was  noisy  and  free.  But  it  seemed  to  Aleksandr 
that  his  freedom  was  forced.  In  his  winking,  yellowish- 
green,  cattish  eyes  wicked  fires  were  sparkling  and  his 
lips  moved  slightly,  as  if  he  were  whispering  something. 
The  candle  illuminated  Aleksandr 's  moustachios  and  his 
firm  clean-shaven  chin.  Kolka  unbuttoned  his  jacket 
and  took  a  seat.  He  immediately  was  swallowed  up  by 
the  darkness. 

"You  know,  Aleksandr  Nikolayevich,  I'm  afraid 
there's  trouble  ahead.  When  you  told  us  the  other  day 
that  spies  were  on  our  trail,  I  did  not  believe  you,  to 
tell  the  truth.    Ha-ha-ha!    But  now  I  too  have  my 


What  Never  Happened  433 

doubts.  Something  is  wrong.  Everything  is  not  as  it 
should  be." 

"Have  you  noticed  something?" 

' '  That 's  just  it.  One  scoundrel  was  following  me.  A 
fat  bastard,  blood  and  milk.  And  his  face  is  beastly — 
big  skull  and  wolfish  eyes.  So  help  me  God,  I  came  out 
at  the  station.  I  looked  around,  he  was  there.  I  turned 
into  a  side  street.  He — after  me.  I  shook  my  fist  at 
him.  I'm  no  infant,  by  God,  I'll  kill  him.  Ha-ha-ha ! 
Then  I  jumped  over  a  fence  and  made  my  way  here 
across  the  orchards.  I  really  don 't  know  where  he  came 
from.  And  by  God,  where  do  so  many  spies  come  from  1 
"We  were  living  quietly,  respectably,  without  police  traps. 
And  suddenly — we're  here." 

"Then  you  have  brought  him  over  here?"  Aleksandr 
asked,  and  moved  over  to  the  candle.  Now  he  could  see 
Kolka  plainly.  He  sat  comfortably,  his  right  foot  out 
forward,  beating  his  cap  on  his  hand.  His  big  face  had 
an  unfamiliar,  puzzling,  insolent  smile.  Aleksandr  felt 
a  shiver  run  through  his  body. 

"Suppose  I  did  bring  him?  I  spit  on  him!"  Kolka 
muttered  through  his  teeth  and  spat  out.  • 

"You  spit  on  him?" 

"Why  not?  If  Vanya  is  not  faking  and  there  is  a 
provocateur  among  us,  then  what  do  spies  amount  to? 
Shrimps!  A  ridiculous  comedy!  I'm  not  afraid  of 
them.  Nonsense!  But  what's  up,  Aleksandr  Nikolaye- 
vich?    Why  did  you  tell  me  to  come  here?" 

* '  What  shall  I  answer  ? ' '  Aleksandr  thought  a  minute. 
"Should  I  invent  some  foolish  pretext?  Should  I  lie 
to  him,  to  a  police  informer?  No,  enough!  I  don't 
want  to. ' '  He  raised  his  head  and  said,  without  looking 
at  Kolka: 


434  What  Never  Happened 

"What  do  you  think  about  the  treachery?" 

*'The  treachery  r' 

"Yes,  about  the  provocateur  in  the  band." 

*'Oh-h,"  Kolka  drawled  impressively,  and  gave  a 
start. 

Aleksandr  listened  attentively.  Outside  near  the 
house  entrance  somebody's  steps  squashed  on  the  rain- 
soaked  path.  But  a  gust  of  wind  rustled  in  the  foliage 
of  the  bushes,  big  drops  of  rain  drummed  on  the  win- 
dows, and  all  became  still  again.  Kolka  crossed  him- 
self and  winked  mysteriously: 

"A  devil!  Ha-ha-ha!  Well,  then,  about  the  provo- 
cateur?    But  I  have  already  told  you." 

"What  did  you  say?" 

"I  said  that  if  there  is  the  least  suspicion,  I  won't 
work,  Aleksandr  Nikolayevich.  I'll  leave,  I'll  leave  for 
good.     I  don't  want  to  handle  filth." 

Aleksandr  looked  at  him. 

"You  don't  want  to  handle  filth?" 

"Say,  what  does  this  mean,  anyway?  It's  insulting, 
Aleksandr  Nikolayevich — very !  If  that  is  why  you  had 
me  come  here,  it  would  have  been  better  if  you  hadn't. 
I'm  no  informer.  No.  I  trust  everybody.  I  guess  it's 
my  fate.  Well,  good-bye,  Aleksandr  Nikolayevich." 
He  sighed  and  raised  his  cap.  "Good  luck  to  you. 
Good-bye." 

Kolka  got  up  and  turned  slowly  to  the  balcony  with 
the  same  mysterious  smile  on  his  face,  Aleksandr  re- 
alized it  was  a  move  to  get  away ;  and  at  the  same  instant 
it  became  clear  to  him  that  he  was  not  mistaken.  Kolka 
the  Bum  was  not  a  comrade,  not  a  member  of  the  band, 
but  the  treacherous  murderer  whose  identity  he  had 
guessed  the  day  before.     Under  the  force  of  a  sudden 


What  Never  Happened  435 

impulse  he  made  a  quick  action  and  seized  Kolka  by  the 
collar.  Kolka  screamed.  His  eyes  began  to  burn.  He 
made  a  sweeping  motion  with  his  hand,  but  instead  of 
striking  Aleksandr,  he  dropped  his  hand  again  and  asked 
quietly : 

"Why  did  you  grab  me?" 

"Because,"  Aleksandr  shouted  in  a  commanding  voice, 
his  face  white  with  anger,  "until  now  I  spoke  to  you  as 
a  comrade,  as  a  member  of  the  band.  And  now — ^you 
hear? — now  I  am  the  commander,  you're  the  subordi- 
nate. I  am  the  officer,  you  are  the  soldier.  I  order 
you  to  answer  me.  Understand?  I  order  you.  Where 
is  your  revolver  ?     Give  it  up ! " 

The  candle  was  slowly  burning  its  last,  and  immense 
blue  shadows — the  shadows  of  Kolka  and  Aleksandr — 
were  struggling  on  the  ceiling.  Kolka,  flushed,  his  face 
almost  blue,  was  moving  his  lips  noiselessly,  trying  to 
say  something.  But  he  said  nothing.  He  reached  obe- 
diently into  his  pocket  and  handed  Aleksandr  his  loaded 
revolver. 

"Let  me  go,  Aleksandr  Nikolayevich." 

Aleksandr  released  him,  and  threw  the  revolver  on  the 
table.  Kolka  seated  himself  and  forced  a  smile  to  his 
face. 

"Why  did  you  get  so  angry?  What's  the  noise 
about?  Because  I  want  to  leave?  But  by  God,  you 
must  understand.  I — I  feel  offended.  What  am  I  ?  A 
spy,  a  detective,  or  a  slave  ?  I  don 't  want  to  stay.  You 
hear?     It's  all  over!" 

He  fixed  his  jacket  and  stole  a  glance  at  the  door. 
Somewhere  outside  near  the  window  the  sound  of  steps 
was  heard  again.  Kolka  stretched  his  neck.  Aleksandr 
smiled.     Of  small  stature,  but  broad-shouldered,  with 


436  What  Never  Happened 

darkened  blue  eyes,  he  stood  motionless  in  front  of  Kolka 
and  looked  at  him  with  hatred.  They  understood  each 
other  now.  Kolka  felt  that  Aleksandr  could  kill  him, 
but  he  did  not  believe  he  would,  just  as  nobody  believes 
in  his  own  death  by  violence.  And  though  he  really  was 
in  the  service  of  Colonel  von  Schoen  and  was  receiving 
money  for  spying,  and  had  given  information  about  the 
band  that  very  morning,  still  he  did  not  feel  guilty.  All 
his  superiors,  advisers,  and  friends  were  doing  the  same 
— the  spies,  the  captains,  the  inspectors  and  the  disguised 
officers.  And  because  he  did  not  feel  guilty,  he  could 
not  believe  that  Aleksandr  hated  him.  But  he  was  ter- 
rified, and  Aleksandr  could  tell  he  was  from  his  insolent 
words,  his  wandering  eyes  and  his  drooping  head. 
Aleksandr  pressed  his  lips  together,  retreated  a  step,  and 
took  out  his  heavy  long-barrelled  revolver. 

"I  advise  you  to  confess." 

''You're  joking,  Aleksandr  Nikolayevich, "  Kolka  rat- 
tled furiously.  "What  do  you  want  me  to  confess? 
That  I  was  working  honestly?  That  I  served  the  revo- 
lution as  well  as  I  could?  I  can't  even  understand  why 
you  speak  to  me  that  way.  What  is  it  ?  By  God !  That 
revolver  of  yours!  Ah,  Aleksandr  Nikolayevich,  it's  a 
sin.  The  cat  will  pay  for  the  mouse's  tears."  He 
turned  away  and  waved  his  hand  in  despair. 

"Confess,"  Aleksandr  muttered,  feeling  the  uneven 
beating  of  his  heart. 

But  here  something  unexpected  happened.  Kolka 
jumped  up  and  blew  out  the  candle.  At  the  same  in- 
stant Aleksandr  heard  the  crash  of  broken  glass.  And 
immediately,  moved  by  a  sudden  impulse,  without  see- 
ing either  Kolka  or  the  window,  Aleksandr  raised  the 
revolver  and  pulled  the  trigger.    The  sudden  shot  rever- 


What  Never  Happened  437 

berated  in  the  air,  a  yellow  flame  burst  out,  and  some- 
tliing  fell  with  a  groan  to  the  floor.  Aleksandr  lighted 
a  match.  Under  the  window,  with  his  feet  towards  the 
table,  lay  Kolka  face  downward.  On  his  neck  near  the 
right  ear  a  dark  stream  of  blood  was  running  down  his 
red  dishevelled  hair.  Aleksandr  put  on  his  hat  and, 
felt  his  way  in  the  darkness  to  the  door,  his  body  oddly 
bent. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

T[IE  rain  had  ceased.  The  remaining  clouds 
were  drifting  in  the  sky.  To  the  right  the 
birch  trees  were  rustling,  to  the  left  the  wet 
orchards  were  stretching.  It  was  cold.  The  air  smelled 
of  rain.  It  seemed  to  Aleksandr  that  the  path  would 
never  end,  and  the  station  was  hundreds  of  versts  away. 
When  the  station  lights  appeared  in  the  distance,  he  re- 
membered that  Kolka  had  not  been  alone.  ''It's  all  the 
same,"  he  muttered  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders. 
"Tsu  Shima — it's  all  the  same."  He  experienced  an 
obstinate,  almost  shameless  feeling  of  indifference.  He 
was  not  thinking  of  the  fact  that  he  had  killed  a  man 
and  a  corpse  was  lying  in  the  deserted  house.  He  walked 
along  without  thoughts,  without  sensations,  like  a  ship 
without  a  steering-wheel. 

On  the  station  platform  near  the  water-tank  a  man 
was  sleeping.  " Kolka 's  spy,"  Aleksandr  thought.  He 
bent  over  him.  He  saw  a  plump  face  with  dyed  mous- 
taches, a  torn  jacket,  and  wet  army  boots.  "A  fat  bas- 
tard— big  skull — ^wolfish  eyes.  And  by  God,  where  do 
so  many  spies  come  from?"  He  recalled  Kolka 's  words 
and  hastened  down  the  platform.  The  telegraph  ap- 
paratus ticked  unceasingly  and  behind  a  lighted  win- 
dow of  the  first-class  buffet  a  man,  evidently  a  merchant, 
was  yawning. 

Suddenly  Aleksandr  was  seized  by  the  sensation  of  an 
irreparable  act,  of  the  killing  of  a  comrade,  Kolka  the 
Bum.     But  he  felt  no  regret  and  had  no  fear.     ''Well, 

438 


What  Never  Happened  439 

what  of  it?  I  killed— Kolka?  Yes— Kolka."  He 
heard  the  rumbling  of  wheels  and  saw  the  sparkle  of  ap- 
proaching lights.  The  rails  resounded  and  the  train 
thundered  into  the  station.  Aleksandr  boarded  it.  The 
man  near  the  water-tank  got  up  and  followed  him  lazily. 
Nothing  of  the  outside  could  be  seen  through  the  damp 
window,  to  which  Aleksandr  pressed  his  cheek.  "I 
killed  a  man,"  he  was  thinking,  "but  I  couldn't  have 
done  otherwise.  I  had  to.  Wasn't  Doctor  Berg  a 
snake?  That's  what  Abram  said.  And  Kolka  was  a 
snake,  too.  "We  are  at  war,  on  the  battlefield.  ]\Iartial 
law  prevails — a  rapid  court-martial."  He  kept  on  argu- 
ing with  himself,  but  the  more  he  argued,  the  more  dis- 
tinct did  Kolka 's  laughing  image  appear  before  his  eyes. 
"It's  insulting,  Aleksandr  Nikolayevich,  very  insulting. 
I'll  leave,  leave  for  good.  What  am  I?  A  spy,  a  de- 
tective, or  a  slave?"  "But  he  didn't  leave  and  he  won't 
leave.  And  perhaps  he's  not  guilty.  He  didn't  con- 
fess. I  shot  him  simply  because  he  was  going  to  run 
away.  Oh,  it's  all  the  same!"  He  brought  his  fist 
down  on  the  bench  furiously.  "In  the  battle  of  Tsu 
Shima  thousands  perished,  honour  perished,  Russia  per- 
ished. What  does  Kolka  the  Bum  amount  to?  And 
how  can  a  provocateur  be  exposed  ?  I  am  sure  he  was  a 
provocateur.  Positively  he  was.  And  that's  enough. 
I  am  right.  The  victory  is  to  him  who  wants  victory 
and  who  dares  to  kill.  I  have  killed  and  I  am  responsi- 
ble—to the  Party?  To  Vanya?  To  Abram?  To  the 
People?  No,  to  my  conscience,  to  Russia."  A  train  go- 
ing in  the  opposite  direction  passed  by  whistling  and  the 
window  lighted  up  with  golden  sparks.  Aleksandr 
looked  around.  Behind  him,  at  the  door,  sat  the  spy  of 
the  station.    "Will  they  arrest  me?    Let  them — Tsu 


440  What  Never  Happened 

Shima — what  was  I  thinking  about?  Kolka?  That's 
what  he  deserved.  God,  give  me  the  happiness,  give  me 
the  happiness  to  serve  great  Russia." 

He  closed  his  eyes  in  weariness.  But  a  foreboding  of 
defeat,  a  foreboding  of  inglorious  fate  did  not  leave  him 
for  a  minute.  It  seemed  as  if  the  battle  had  taken 
place  that  day,  the  cannons  had  been  thundering,  the 
Japanese  had  won,  and  the  white  flag  of  surrender  had 
been  hoisted. 

It  was  late  when  Aleksandr  arrived  in  Moscow.  Not 
knowing  why,  he  went  to  the  all-night  restaurant  Var- 
iete  and  ordered  a  bottle  of  wine.  He  wanted  not  to 
think.  He  wanted  to  believe  that  he  was  not  alone,  that 
somewhere  in  Moscow,  or  in  St.  Petersburg,  or  even  a 
thousand  miles  away,  there  was  a  man  who  could  un- 
derstand him  and  realize  what  it  meant  to  expose  a 
provocateur,  to  make  terror,  and  most  important,  to 
kill.  "And  Abram?  And  Svistkov?  And  Vanya?" 
He  thought  of  the  band  with  an  unfamiliar  feeling  of 
affection.  "Won't  they  understand?  Won't  they  ap- 
preciate it?  We  are  not  mere  friends,  we  are  brothers, 
bound  by  blood."  He  did  not  notice  the  white  tables, 
or  the  officers  with  their  tinkling  spurs,  or  the  painted 
women,  not  even  the  respectable  gentleman  with  gold 
rings  on  his  fingers  who  threw  occasional  glances  at  him. 
The  "work"  suddenly  appeared  ridiculous.  "We  were 
not  able  to  win  there  at  Tsu  Shima.  We  have  not  been 
able  to  win  here  in  Moscow.  I  killed  Kolka.  But  was 
Kolka  the  only  one?  Was  there  not  a  Doctor  Berg? 
They  are  legion,  these  Kolkas  and  Bergs.  Everywhere 
treachery  and  disgrace."  And  the  whole  Party  now 
made  the  impression  on  him  of  a  lion  mortally  wounded. 
He  saw  the  estate  so  painfully  built  up,  the  secret  meet- 


"What  Never  Happened  441 

ings,  the  committees,  the  unions,  the  organizations,  the 
workmen's  groups,  the  fighting  squads  and  the  student 
circles.  He  saw  how  in  every  city,  every  village,  on 
the  snow-bound  Russian  steppes,  the  members  of  the 
Party  were  diligently  building  a  new  life.  And  he  saw 
how  everywhere,  from  Archangel  to  Baku,  and  from 
Warsaw  to  Irkutsk,  double-faced  Kolkas  were  hypo- 
critically doing  their  work  and  eating  like  a  canker  at 
the  Party's  body.  ''Is  there  any  way  at  all  of  carry- 
ing on  the  struggle?  What's  the  use  of  my  investiga- 
tions? Of  my  killing?  The  stricken  body  won't  be 
brought  to  life  again,  we  shan't  finj.  a  remedy  for  the 
poisonous  wounds.  But  why  ?  Perhaps  others  will  find 
a  remedy.  I  can't.  And  if  I  can't  then  it  means  Tsu 
Shima. ' '  He  did  not  finish  his  wine,  but  went  out  into 
Trubnaya  Plaza.  The  respectable  looking  gentleman 
with  gold  rings  on  his  fingers  got  up  and  followed  him. 

In  the  Hotel  Metropol  the  doors  were  wide  open. 
The  servants'  room  was  lighted,  and  on  the  threshold 
stood  a  tall  waiter  unfamiliar  to  Aleksandr.  Aleksandr 
looked  at  his  watch.  The  hands  were  not  moving.  It 
had  stopped  at  twelve  o'clock. 

''What  time  have  you  got?" 

"Half  past  one." 

Aleksandr  nodded  and  began  to  walk  up  the  stairs. 
But  on  the  third  step  somebody  seized  him  by  the 
shoulder.  Not  yet  understanding  that  he  was  arrested 
and  going  white  with  the  indignity  of  the  assault,  Alek- 
sandr turned  around  quickly.  He  recognized  the  sta- 
tion spy.  The  man,  holding  him  tight,  was  looking  at 
him  with  frightened  eyes.  Without  a  moment's  hesi- 
tation Aleksandr  struck  him  in  the  face.  He  felt  the 
man's  hold  relax,  and  ran  up  the  stairs. 


442  "What  Never  Happened 

On  the  landing  between  the  first  and  second  floors  he 
stopped.  He  saw  he  was  in  a  trap  and  could  not  es- 
cape. In  the  corner,  near  a  plush  couch,  he  saw  a  dried- 
up  palm.  "A  palm?"  he  thought.  "What  is  a  palm 
here  for?"  For  a  moment  his  mind  was  held  by  the 
faint  recollection  of  the  southern  sky,  the  sparkling  blue 
bay,  the  mewing  of  pink  sea-gulls,  the  red  cactus,  and  the 
3'ellow-faced  Japanese  soldier.  "A  sentry — Nagasaki — 
Tsu  Shima."  He  stood  erect  and  looked  downstairs  in- 
differently. 

Soldiers  were  running  out  of  the  door  of  the  dark 
dining-room.  They  were  many.  In  the  waiters'  room 
swords  were  clinking.  The  officer  could  not  be  seen. 
Aleksandr,  blue-eyed,  his  grey  coat  unbuttoned,  stood 
motionless  on  the  landing,  his  black  revolver  in  his  hand. 
He  still  did  not  believe  that  he  would  be  arrested. 
"Would  those  men  in  grey  uniforms,  the  very  men  who 
had  risked  their  lives  in  the  battle  of  Tsu  Shima — would 
they  want  to  shoot  him?  He  cocked  his  revolver  and 
kept  his  eyes  fixed  quietly  on  the  soldiers.  He  knew  he 
would  not  kill  anybody.  But  as  soon  as  the  click  of  his 
revolver  was  heard,  a  voice  shouted,  "Shoot!"  An 
awkward  corporal  with  a  long  neck  and  big  fists  raised 
his  gun  irresolutely.  But  Aleksandr,  as  if  he  were 
pushing  him  aside,  aimed  at  his  own  breast. 

"It's  all  the  same.  I  have  not  succeeded — ^have  not 
helped  to  save  Russia."  With  a  simple  quick  motion, 
as  when  he  had  shot  Kolka,  he  pulled  the  trigger. 
There  was  a  loud  report.  He  fell  at  the  couch  under 
the  dusty  palm.  His  firm  face  with  its  blue  eyes  was 
cold  and  passionless.  Aleksandr  looked  as  though  he 
were  asleep. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THAT  same  night  the  police  arrested  Abram, 
Anna,  Svistkov,  Solomon  Moiseyevich  and 
Eosenstern  who  was  then  in  Kiev,  Solomon 
Moiseyevich  offered  armed  resistance.  He  barricaded 
himself  in  his  room  in  Ilinka  Street  and  kept  up  a  fire 
against  the  besiegers  until  he  ran  out  of  bullets.  He 
was  killed  towards  morning  through  an  opening  cut  in 
the  ceiling.  The  only  one  to  escape  arrest  was  Vanya. 
He  was  in  the  theatre  when  the  gendarmes  came  to  his 
house.  He  returned  home  at  eleven  o'clock  and  was 
stopped  at  the  gate  by  the  concierge,  who  advised  him 
in  a  low  whisper  not  to  enter  the  house.  Vanya  went 
away.  He  spent  a  month  in  disguise  in  Klina,  then 
secured  a  new  passport,  and  left  for  Odessa,  where  he 
remained  until  October,  and  then  started  for  Bolotovo  to 
see  Aleksandr's  parents.  He  had  promised  Aleksandr 
at  the  very  outset  of  the  "work"  to  inform  his  parents 
in  case  of  an  accident,  and  he  felt  it  his  duty  to  keep 
his  word. 

It  was  a  late,  rainy  autumn,  with  a  cold  north  wind 
prevailing.  The  linden-trees  had  lost  their  dark-green 
attire,  and  the  garden  paths  were  littered  with  the  fallen 
leaves.  The  flowers  had  withered.  Nikolay  Stepano- 
vich  's  favourite  flower-bed  was  denuded  of  its  red  carna- 
tions, gillyflowers  and  reseda.  The  woods  were  damp 
and  still.  The  fir-trees  were  whispering,  the  fallen  twigs 
cracked  under  the  feet,  and  flocks  of  crows  filled  the  air 

443 


444:  Wliat  Never  Happened 

with  their  cawing.  There  was  an  atmosphere  of  sad- 
ness about  the  woods.  It  foretold  a  long,  cold,  gloomy- 
winter. 

After  the  death  of  his  second  son  Andrey  Nikolay 
Stepanovich  had  suffered  a  stroke.  For  over  a  year  he 
had  been  confined  to  bed.  His  body,  till  then  sound 
and  vigorous  became  thin  and  lifeless,  and  his  bloodless 
lips  tried  in  vain  to  speak.  Natasha  attended  him. 
She  was  silent  and  stern.  Old  Tatyana  Mikhailovna 
could  hardly  bear  her  sufferings.  God  seemed  to  have 
abandoned  her,  though  she  continued  to  offer  prayers 
and  to  have  litanies  performed.  All  her  affection,  all 
her  motherly  tenderness  were  now  concentrated  upon 
her  firstborn,  Aleksandr.  She  knew  he  had  left  the  ser- 
vice, but  she  concealed  it  from  her  husband.  She 
guessed  that  he  had  followed  in  the  footsteps  of  her  lost 
sons  Mikhail  and  Andrey,  yet  cherished  the  belief  that 
she  was  mistaken  and  Aleksandr,  an  obedient,  affection- 
ate son,  would  spare  her  age  and  his  dying  father.  Na- 
tasha tried  to  reassure  her,  insisting  that  her  brother 
was  abroad  and  that  they  would  get  a  letter  soon.  But 
she  herself  had  no  faith  in  what  she  said.  And  often 
the  two  would  share  tears  together,  the  mother  for  her 
sons,  the  daughter  for  her  mother. 

A  year  passed  in  mourning  and  in  caring  for  Nikolay 
Stepanovich.  Everybody  in  the  house,  including  the 
servants  and  occasional  uninvited  guests,  felt  the  op- 
pressive cloud  hanging  over  the  place.  The  housekeeper, 
Malanya  Petrovna,  walked  on  tiptoes,  sighed,  and  rolled 
her  little  mouselike  eyes.  The  maids  Lukerya  and 
Dasha  sang  no  more.  The  manager  Aleksey  Antono- 
vich  crossed  himself,  sighed,  and  presented  himself  regu- 
larly to  Natasha  to  receive  her  awkward  orders.    The 


What  Never  Happened  445 

household  was  all  in  disorder.  At  night  the  ax  was 
heard  in  the  woods,  and  no  one  asked  who  was  cutting  the 
trees,  and  for  whom.  The  harvest  was  half  the  size  of 
the  neighbours '.  The  garden  was  neglected.  The  build- 
ings were  unattended.  The  stalls  were  empty.  Nikolay 
Stepanovich  kept  muttering  unintelligible  words  ex- 
citedly. "Long-haired  ones,  knaves,  sold  Russia,  hang." 
Then  Natasha  would  come  over  to  him  noiselessly  and 
caress  his  grey  hair.  The  family  held  together  by  the 
three  sons,  ruddy  Misha,  tall  Andriusha  and  broad- 
shouldered  Sasha  was  no  more.  There  remained  noth- 
ing but  a  demolished,  weatherbeaten  nest. 

Vanya  reached  the  manor-house  in  the  morning.  In 
his  torn  peasant  jacket  and  felt  shoes  he  looked  like  a 
labourer  out  of  work. 

Aleksey  Antonovich  received  him  in  his  office. 
When  Vanya  explained  that  he  came  on  personal  busi- 
ness, he  shook  his  head  in  distrust,  but  called  a  boy  and 
told  him  to  announce  the  visitor.  A  samovar  was  filling 
the  office  with  smoke.  The  walls  were  covered  with  por- 
traits of  metropolitans  and  of  General  Skobelev  on  a 
white  horse.  Vanya  looking  through  the  window  saw 
the  barefoot  boy  running  to  the  house,  jumping  over 
puddles,  the  lilac  bushes  shaking  in  the  wind,  and  Ma- 
lanya  Petrovna  working  in  the  kitchen.  Observing  this 
unfamiliar  life,  he  felt  he  had  come  in  vain.  But  he 
heard  the  sound  of  rapid  steps  outside.  Natasha  en- 
tered the  office.  She  wore  a  black  dress  and  a  black 
knitted  shawl.  Vanya  immediately  recognized  her  by 
her  cold  blue  eyes.     She  looked  at  him  perplexed. 

"Have  you  come  on  business?" 

"Yes,  on  personal  business." 

They    went   outside.    The    wet,    soggy    ground   was 


446  What  Never  Happened 

covered  with  rotting  straw.  Freezing  sparrows  were 
flying  around.     Vanya  stammered: 

*'I  come  from  your  brother." 

"From  Aleksandr?"  Natasha  asked  in  excitement. 
"Are  you  from  him?     Is  he  alive?" 

Vanya  cast  down  his  eyes. 

"Well,  speak,  speak!" 

"Aleksandr  Nikolayevich  is  dead,"  Vanya  answered, 
afraid  to  look  at  Natasha.  She  said  nothing.  Vanya 
flushed  and  was  silent. 

"When?" 

"In  Moscow,  on  the  20th  of  August." 

"I  read  about  it.     Then  it  was  he?" 

"Yes." 

She  turned  away,  and  went  back  to  the  house  oblivious 
of  Vanya.  In  her  black  dress  and  with  her  long 
braided  light  hair,  she  looked  like  a  nun.  Vanya 
thought  she  would  fall.     But  suddenly  she  stopped : 

"Are  you  his  comrade?  Yes?  Excuse  me — do  you 
— do  you  need  anything?" 

"No,  nothing." 

"I  beg  you — " 

"Thank  you,  nothing." 

She  stood  a  long  time,  unable  to  move,  as  if  trying  to 
grasp  something.  At  last  she  threw  up  her  hands  in 
resignation. 

"My  God,  how  will  I  tell  them?" 

The  station  was  seven  versts  away.  Vanya  went  on 
foot.  It  was  windy,  his  feet  sank  in  the  mud,  a  cold  mist 
was  falling,  and  a  heavy  cloud  was  encircling  the  sky 
on  the  left  from  behind  the  woods.  On  all  sides,  as  far 
as  the  eye  could  reach,  the  harvested  fields  stretched 
monotonously.     Along  the  road  stood  the  birches,  like 


i 
What  Never  Happened  447 

solitary  sentries.  Shivering  with  the  cold  and  lis- 
tening to  the  whistling  of  the  wind  Vanya  recalled 
his  life.  He  thought  of  his  childhood  with  its  beatings, 
its  cursings,  its  drunkenness,  and  the  peasants'  bare, 
naked  want.  He  recalled  his  youth,  the  factory,  the 
noise  of  machines,  and  drunkenness  again  and  want. 
He  recalled  Volodya,  his  immense  height  and  strength, 
his  commanding  voice  and  the  revolver  in  his  hand.  He 
recalled  Presnia,  the  frosty  day  at  the  barricades  and 
Seriozha,  the  schoolhouse  and  the  dragoons.  He  recalled 
Anna  and  Ippolit,  the  assassination  of  the  army  prose- 
cutor. He  recalled  Abram,  Berg,  Kolka,  Aleksandr. 
His  recollections  filled  him  with  fear.  ''Absolutely  de- 
feated! Neither  Volodya,  nor  Seriozha,  nor  Ippolit, 
nor  the  Bolotovs,  nor  Rosenstem  could  achieve  anything. 
Who  will?  Where  is  the  hope?  Or  is  there  no  hope? 
Is  there  no  truth  in  the  world?"  He  felt  still  colder 
from  these  thoughts.  It  seemed  senseless,  sinful,  shame- 
ful to  live. 

He  reached  the  station  at  five  o'clock.  It  was  not 
yet  dark,  but  it  was  foggy  and  the  autumn  sky  was 
shedding  tears.  The  platform  was  crowded.  A  com- 
pany of  mill-workers  was  leaving.  At  their  front  stood 
a  tall,  broad-shouldered,  bearded  peasant,  resembling 
Volodya  at  the  distance  from  which  Vanya  saw  him. 
His  intent,  firm,  somewhat  pock-marked  face  and  clever 
grey  eyes  struck  Vanya.  "So  help  me  God,  it's  Vol- 
odya," he  thought,  and  suddenly  he  saw  a  vision  of  la- 
bouring Russia.  He  saw  the  Russia  of  endless,  ploughed, 
sweat-moistened  fields,  of  factories,  shops,  and  workshops, 
not  the  Russia  of  students,  officers,  programs,  meetings, 
committees,  not  idle,  babbling  Russia,  but  the  Russia  of 
tillers  and  reapers,  the  great  Russia,  labouring  and  uu- 


448  What  Never  Happened 

conquerable.  Instantly  he  felt  relieved.  He  under- 
stood that  the  red  tape  committees,  and  the  hooligans, 
and  treachery,  and  the  impotent  barricades,  and  Vol- 
odya's  audacity,  and  Ippolit's  devotion,  and  Aleksandr's 
courage,  and  Audrey's  doubts  were  only  the  foam  of  the 
people's  sea,  the  splash  of  the  beating  waves.  He  un- 
derstood that  ministers  and  committees  cannot  change 
the  course  of  events,  just  as  sailors  cannot  allay  a  stormy 
sea.  And  he  felt  that  deep  in  his  weary  soul  a  new, 
pure  faith  was  rekindling,  a  faith  in  the  people,  in  the 
work  of  emancipation,  in  a  regenerated  world  based  on 
love,  a  faith  in  the  eternal  truth. 


THE  END 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    000  870  113    8 


